












































\ 








I 


» 



THE KEY 


BOOKS BY LEE THAYER 

r 


Q. E. D. 

That Affair at “The Cedars” 

The Key 

The Mystery of the Thirteenth Floor 
The Sinister Mark 
The Unlatched Door 

















COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY 
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES 
AT 

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 

First Edition 



(J 

©C1A814012 













TO 

DORA WHEELER KEITH 

WITH MY LOVE 

















I 


f 


4 











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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The Tower Room . i 

II. Morning. 7 

III. The Shadow of Death.18 

IV. Between Midnight and Two in the 

Morning.27 

V. Mr. Fletcher Kenyon. 36 

VI. P. C. 45 

VII. The Stick Falls. 54 

VIII. A Little Cake of Dried Red Clay . r 63 

IX. A Crumpled Paper. 78 

X. The Search. 89 

XI. “You Never Can Tell”. 104 

XII. The Man with the Undershot Jaw . . 113 

XIII. “Wilful Murder”. 125 

XIV. Clancy Makes an Odd Request ... 133 

XV. O’Malley Tails On. 144 

vii 













viii CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XVI. In the Old Desk. 153 

XVII. Peter Clancy Goes Fishing . . . 165 

XVIII. The Letter. 174 

XIX. Clancy Listens In. 185 

XX. The Key. 195 

XXL Margaret Stacy. 206 

XXII. The Will. 220 

XXIII. The Show-down. 234 

XXIV. The Sword of Damocles .250 









THE KEY 










THE KEY 


CHAPTER I 
The Tower Room 

A PEACEFUL night, serene and calm. A late 
^ September moon, broad and silver-white, float¬ 
ing in a spacious sky of deepest azure. Peace—peace 
everywhere; on silent farm and harvested fields, on 
wooded hills and softly murmuring brooks, on still 
deep pools—on white, empty roads, on broad lawns 
of great estates, on widespread roofs of far-spaced 
houses where here and there a lonely light still gleamed 
and twinkled. 

And of all the homes of luxury and wealth on 
Bernard Ridge, so far as the moon could tell, none 
seemed more at peace than Tower Hall. The great 
octagonal tower, from which it took its name, rose 
sheer above a precipice of quarried stone and was 
serenely reflected in the deep, dark pool at its base. 
The wide, low stone facade of the house shone faintly 
in the silver light, the lawns and perfumed gardens 
were quiet with the stillness of perfect peace. 

So far the moon could see, as she gazed down with 
her age-old eyes upon the sleeping earth. She could 

7 


2 


THE KEY 


look but a little way through the glass of the tower 
roof, and could see nothing at all through the high, 
narrow slits let into the thick masonry of the upper 
walls, the only windows that the tower contained. 
Could the moon have seen what was passing in the 
tower room; could she have watched all through that 
night; could she have told the things she saw to those 
who would have given much—to one who would 
have given almost life itself—to hear there would 
have been no need to write this story. 

“And what if I refuse!” The tone was low and 
angry. The speaker, a tall, sallow man with iron- 
gray hair, brought his thin, nervous hand down on 
the long table in front of him with a soft but deter¬ 
mined thud. 

“ But you won’t, you can’t refuse, Gilbert. Think 
what it means! Consider-” 

“I tell you I’m angry with you, Curtis. Angry 
to the soul! Haven’t I always been decent, more 
than decent to you? Haven’t I looked out for you 
through thick and thin? Haven’t I paid all your 
gambling debts and other debts no matter how 
discreditable? Even if we have quarrelled over 
them—even if I have balked and threatened, I’ve 
always protected you—because you were of my 
blood—for the sake of our name—and because, care¬ 
less and extravagant, and worse, as I knew you to be, 
I thought you always told me the truth, and to thar 
extent I trusted you. ” Gilbert Fane’s eyes were 


THE TOWER ROOM 


3 

hard and bitter as he looked across the table at the 
tall, well-made, debonair figure of his younger 
brother. “I paid the woman once—handsomely— 
and you told me she was dead. Oh, Curtis, Curtis, 
Fve always believed in your honesty to me at least. 
And there was so much at stake. Honour—the 
name of Fane to be bandied about in the yellow 
papers. God!” 

“But I thought, myself, she was dead, Gilbert. 
Honestly I did! You must believe me.” Curtis 
Fane stretched out his long, slender, well-tended 
hands in appeal. There was pleading, too, in his 
handsome dark brown eyes. He leaned toward his 
brother. “It's a large sum, I know, but I am sure I 
can silence her this time for ever. Til write out a 
paper for her to sign. We should have done it before, 
but the girl appeared honest enough, and it did seem 
only square to do something for her, in the circum¬ 
stances-” He broke off and glanced sidewise at 

his brother’s angry averted face. “Think how 
proud Denise is, Gilbert. Think what it will mean 
to your wife—and little Stuart—any stain on the 
name, any-” 

Gilbert Fane made a furious gesture as if sweep¬ 
ing something aside. “It’s the name I care about, 
Curtis, as you ought to know by this time. The rest 
doesn’t matter.” 

“But think, only think-” Curtis interrupted. 

“Oh, my God, I am thinking,” said Gilbert Fane, 
furiously. “But you lied to me, Curtis! You lied 



4 


THE KEY 

to me! You knew the woman wasn’t dead. You’ll 

have to prove to me- No! by everything that’s 

holy! She’ll get no more money from me till I know 
you’re telling the truth. I’ll find out for myself. 
I’ll settle with her and be rid of her. I should have 
done it in the first place instead of trusting you.” 

“But you can’t do that, Gilbert.” Curtis’s voice 
was almost a cry. “Think of Denise if she should 
ever hear! Give me the money, Gilbert. Give me 
the money and you keep out of this. It’s the best 
way. Believe me-” 

“I won’t give you the money, Curtis, and that’s 
my last word,” said Gilbert Fane, rising to his feet 
and rapping the shining top of the table. “You 
bungled the affair before and you’ve lied to me. I 
can see it in your eyes. Look at me! Did you really 
believe Margaret Stacy was dead? Or was it only 
because you needed money, as usual, and thought the 
good news would make me generous?” 

“You’re unjust to me, Gilbert. You really are.” 
The deep, charming voice failed to carry conviction 
to the brother’s mind. “Of course, I always want 
money. My allowance isn’t nearly enough for a 
man of my tastes, as I’m always telling you. I 
need money now, I’m perfectly frank and honest 
with you, old man* I always have been; and as to 
Margaret Stacy’s death-” 

“You lied to me, Curtis,” said the older man with 
cold brutality. “That’s plain—and I don’t know 
how many times you have lied to me before. You’ll 





THE TOWER ROOM 


5 

get no more money from me for any purpose. I 
don’t know yet what I’ll do about this affair—but 
you’ve broken faith with me in spite of all I’ve done 
for you, and I’m through with you. Understand! 
You can shift for yourself. You knew how keenly I 
felt about this matter and you deliberately deceived 
me in cold blood, and for money. I’m through with 
you,” he repeated. “Your allowance stops from 
to-night.” 

“Damn you!” cried^ Curtis, furiously. “You’ll 

be sorry for this. I’ll make you sorry. I’ll- 

What if I did know the woman was alive ? I thought 
it would be a relief to you to think she was dead. I 
did it all in kindness! I was sure we’d never hear 
from her again. And you were relieved. You were 
glad. You’ve been glad any day these nine years. 
It would have been rough if anything had come out 
when you were about to marry Denise, and I 
thought-” 

“You thought you’d get more money out of me 
and you did. Let that satisfy you,” retorted Gilbert 
roughly. 

“And you really mean you’re through?”—the 
reckless voice was tense and strained—“that after 
all these years we’ve been together you’re going to 
chuck me out, neck and crop? Don’t do it, Gilbert! 
Don’t, for your own sake! I tell you I’m desperate. 
>fou can’t mean what you say!” 

“ I’m not in the habit of eating my words.” Gilbert 
gazed at him coldly, then turning deliberately he 



6 


THE KEY 


picked up a thick sheaf of bank-notes, bound together 
with a stout rubber band, which lay at one end of the 
table. They had evidently come directly from the 
bank, for the several denominations were compactly 
secured by pinned paper slips. Removing the rub¬ 
ber band, he selected one package and threw it 
contemptuously across the table. “There’s the five 
hundred I promised to give you for the saddle horse 
you wanted,” he said. “You can use it for travelling 
expenses, if you prefer.” And added, in an icy tone, 
“It’s late. You’ll have a busy day to-morrow. 
You’d better get to bed.” 

Curtis Fane, with lowered head and set jaw, 
looked long at his brother. Then his slender nervous 
fingers closed on the little bundle of bank-notes; 
without shifting his glance, he folded them together 
and shoved them into the pocket of his dinner jacket, 
but spoke no word. 

There was an ugly silence in the great octagonal 
room. The air, overheated from prematurely lighted 
fires, was heavy and oppressive. The gloom in the 
upper spaces of the tower seemed to stir and threaten. 
In the lesser dark below huge stands of arms, of 
every clime, of every age, shone dimly in the light re¬ 
flected from the one circle of brilliance which showed 
the faces of the two brothers gazing at each other— 
and there was not a murderous weapon in all the 
great collection, not one, more murderous than the 
look in the eyes of Curtis Fane. 


CHAPTER II 

Morning 

A LOW but peremptory knocking on a white- 
^ panelled door. 

Curtis Fane stirred uneasily on his hot pillow and 
then with a convulsive start came to full conscious¬ 
ness. 

“Who’s there?” 

“It’s only me, James, sir. May I speak with you 
a moment?” 

“Yes. Come in.” 

An apologetic hand rattled the knob, but the door 
remained closed. 

“Oh—I forgot. Wait a minute,” said Curtis, 
springing out of bed. “What is it, James?” he added 
as, unlocking and opening the door, he caught sight 
of the servant’s perturbed face. “You look-” 

“I don’t know what to think, Mr. Curtis,” in¬ 
terrupted the man, anxiously, “and I came straight 
to you, sir.” 

“Yes, yes,” cried Curtis, impatiently. “Quite 
right, James. But what is it? You-” 

“It’s the master, Mr. Gilbert, sir. I went to his 
room just now with his coffee, prompt at eight- 
thirty as always—and he wasn’t there, sir.” 


7 


8 


THE KEY 

“What!” cried Curtis, in apparent surprise. “You 
don’t mean that he-” 

“He couldn’t have been to his room at all, I think, 
sir. His bed hasn’t been slept in, nor his night things 
touched. They’re just as they were laid out for him 
last night. I don’t know what to think, sir, and-” 

“Queer,” said Curtis, slowly, with an odd look in 
his eyes. 

He stretched out his hand and picked up a dressing 
gown which lay across a chair. Automatically, the 
valet took it from him and held it while he shpped it 
on. 

“You’ve looked downstairs?” asked Curtis, after a 
moment’s silence. “He isn’t in the tower?” 

“The tower door’s locked, sir, and Mr. Gilbert’s 
nowhere in the house.” 

Curtis Fane looked at the man and the man looked 
at him. Both faces were filled with anxiety. 

“It’s such an unusual thing, sir,” the valet con¬ 
tinued. “It’s such an unusual thing, as you know, 
that I got scared, sir, and came straight up to you.” 

“Right, James. You did quite right. It is 
damned queer,” said Curtis Fane, his lean brows 
knitting in a heavy frown. With a quick motion he 
caught up a carafe which stood on a table by the 
head of the bed, poured out a glass of water with a 
hand that shook a little, drank it at a gulp, and added, 
“My brother seemed perfectly well last night.” 

“Was he in the tower room when you saw him last, 
sir?” James asked, eagerly. 


MORNING 


9 

If there was a slight hesitation in the answer, the 
valet failed to notice it. “Yes,” Curtis replied. 
“Yes. He was in the tower and appeared perfectly 
well when I left him. He may have fallen asleep. 
We’d better go down and see. I’m sure there’s noth¬ 
ing to be alarmed about,” he added, as together they 
quickly traversed the upper hall and reached the top 
of the stair. 

The beautiful carved Elizabethan stairway in its 
leisurely descent passed around three sides of a broad 
hall and ended opposite a great carved stone fire¬ 
place. From the top of the stair the entire stone- 
paved hall could be seen. It was still and empty 
at this early morning hour and the feet of the two 
men echoed in the spacious stillness as they ran down 
the polished stairs. 

Without an instant’s pause, they turned to the 
right at the foot of the steps and came upon a tall, 
dark, closed door. 

Instinctively their voices sank to a whisper. 

“I knocked before, sir,” James volunteered, “but 
not too loud for fear of disturbing the house.” 

“He’s surely asleep,” insisted Curtis, in a husky 
voice. “He may wake up at any minute.” 

He tried the door as he spoke. It was fast-locked. 
He stooped and peered through the keyhole. 

“Can’t see a thing,” he muttered. 

“No, sir, I couldn’t either. The key must be in 
the lock.” Clearly James was intensely alarmed. 

“Well, we’ll probably get the devil if he’s only just 


o 


asleep,” said Curtis under his breath, “but here 
goes.” 

He raised his hand and knocked upon the panel, 
first quietly and then, as there was no answer, no faint¬ 
est stirring within the tower, louder and still louder. 

“What’s up? My God, what in hell’s the matter, 
Curtis?” 

The voice was controlled and deliberate, not at 
all in keeping with the ejaculatory profanity of the 
words. It came from the upper reaches of the stair¬ 
way, startling, with its suddenness, the two men at 
the door. Looking up quickly they saw an odd 
figure running down the steps toward them. It was 
a man well above the average height and of indeter¬ 
minate age. He might have been under thirty, he 
might have been over forty. His was the type which 
looks quaintly old in youth and quaintly young 
even in extreme old age. A well-worn dressing 
gown wrapped his thin body, and above it, supported 
by a thin but muscular neck, was an innocent-looking 
tanned face from which a pair of mild brown eyes 
peered through large, highly magnifying spectacles. 
His head was crowned with a thick mass of rumpled, 
curly yellow hair. 

“What in hell’s the matter?” he repeated, soberly, 
as he reached the foot of the stair. “You’re making 
noise enough to wake the dead.” 

Curtis Fane’s convulsive shudder was quickly 
controlled. James Haggerty, the valet, all but 
crossed himself. He was the first to speak. 


MORNING 


ii 


“Mr. Gilbert didn’t go to his room last night, Mr. 
Matchem—at least, he didn’t sleep there-” 

“And James couldn’t find him in the house, Tom, 
and became alarmed,” added Curtis, hurriedly. 
“The tower door’s locked—not that that’s unusual, 
of course.” 

“Hush.” The last comer spoke in a guarded 
voice. “Denise-” 

All three men looked swiftly up and across the 
broad hall. Descending the stairs with a light, 
uneven tread was a slender, dark woman, graceful 
and young. Her small head with its smooth, soft 
bands of blue-black hair was carried proudly, but 
there was a sense of anxiety—alarm, perhaps—in 
the entire figure as she hastened swiftly toward 
them. 

“Tom—Curtis—what is it? What are you doing 
here? Where is Gilbert?” 

The voice was low and deep for a woman, with a 
curious vibration that somehow made one think of 
colour, rich colour, rather than sound. 

“Who was knocking so loudly?” she insisted, as 
the three men hesitated. “And why-” 

“We don’t know quite what to think, Denise,” 
said Tom Matchem, in his slow, quiet way as he met 
her at the foot of the stair. “There’s nothing to 
be alarmed at, of course.” He spoke with almost 
a drawl, but there was a strong, reassuring pressure 
in the touch of his hand on her arm. “James 
is so used to Gilbert’s regular habits that he was a 




12 


THE KEY 


little disturbed at not finding Gilbert in his room and 

got Curtis fussed as the devil, and-” 

“Gilbert not in his room?’’ cried Denise in sur¬ 
prise. She had been married nine years or more, 
and never had she known her husband to leave his 
room before nine o’clock in the morning. She 
turned her small, pale oval face from one to the 
other and there was a strange enigmatic look in her 
sea-green, sea-blue eyes. They came to rest on the 
face of her husband’s cousin and secretary, Thomas 
Matchem. “Tell me the truth, Tom,” she said, 
“I can bear anything that I know. Why were you 
knocking? Why are you all alarmed about Gilbert ?” 

“I’ve just come down,” answered Tom, quietly. 
“I heard the knocking, too. It looks as if Gilbert 
must have slept in the tower last night. James can’t 

find him about the house--” 

The mistress looked swiftly toward the valet for 
corroboration. The man replied as if she had spoken. 

“I’ve been all over the house, madam, except in the 
tower,” with an almost imperceptible jerk of his head 
in the direction of the door. “ Since very early in the 
morning the maids have been at work in all the rooms 
that are open, and none of them have seen Mr. Gilbert. 
I knocked on the tower door as soon as I found he 
hadn’t slept in his room last night, and I couldn’t 

get an answer. Then I went over the house-” 

“You said you came right up to me,” interrupted 
Curtis, quickly. 

“I meant I came right up as soon as I felt there was 




MORNING 


i3 


reason to be frightened, if you please, sir/’ said the 
valet, smoothly. “Of course, I would have looked 
the house over first, Mr. Curtis.” There was just a 
hint of reproach in the man’s voice. 

“I suppose so. Quite right, James.” Curtis 
Fane turned a concerned face toward his sister-in-law 
and his cousin. “What do you think we ought to 
do?” he asked. “If he’s in there, we can’t make 
him hear-” 

Thomas Matchem suddenly stepped close to the 
door and, bending down so that his lips were almost 
touching the keyhole, he called, “Gilbert!” and 
again still louder: “Gilbert, are you there? Wake 
up! Gilbert!” 

There was no answer save an eerie echo from the 
hall: “ G-i-l-b-e-r-t !” 

Then Thomas Matchem shook the handle of the 
door and banged on it with his fist. His hand was 
thin, but strong and hard, and the noise the other 
men had made was as nothing in comparison. 

A group of servants had long since gathered at the 
far end of the corridor which led from the square 
hall, but they were too well trained to come nearer. 
They waited now, with curious, frightened eyes. 

Tom banged again, and again called loudly: 

“Gilbert!” 

“Could he possibly sleep after that?” whispered 
Denise, tightly clenching her two slender white 
hands, one within the other. 

“It doesn’t seem possible,” muttered Curtis, 


THE KEY 


H 

“but the tower door is thick, Denise, and the 

walls-If he were very sound asleep--” 

“Oh,” cried Denise, with a gasping intake of the 
breath, “I can’t bear—I can’t bear this suspense! 
And Stuart may hear. He was ill last night. Don’t” 
—catching Thomas Matchem’s arm as he was about 
to knock again “—don’t do it again, Tom. Wait 
a minute. Let us think. ” 

At her command there was instant silence in the 
great grave house. It would be a dark day outside, 
for little light came through the tall, narrow mul- 
lioned windows on the landing of the stair, and where 
they stood, in the shadow of the heavy balustrade, 
it was almost dark: not so dark, however, but that 
one pair of eyes, at least, noted how white the girl’s 
face was and how tightly she bit her scarlet lips. 

After a long moment Denise Fane spoke, and there 
was a quiet authority in her controlled voice: 

“There can be no possible doubt that Mr. Fane 
is not in any other part of the house, James?” 

“None, madam.” The valet’s tone carried con¬ 
viction. “He didn’t sleep in his room last night 

at all, and- I think, myself, if you’ll excuse 

me, madam-” 

“That will do, James.” 

The valet was elderly—had been with Mr. Gilbert 
“since his first evening suit,” as he would have told 
you—and inwardly he resented the tone of his young 
mistress (“Too young for Mr. Gilbert, entirely”), 
but he gave no sign. 




MORNING 


i5 

Denise turned sharply from the servant and faced 
the two other men who waited anxiously. 

“Of course, Gilbert didn’t leave the house last 
night,” she said. “He was in the tower room late. 
You were with him, Curtis. How did he seem? 
Was he well?” 

“I—yes, he was well—at least he seemed so to 
me,” replied Curtis, swiftly. “ But why do you say 
it was late, Denise? It couldn’t have been. I am 
sure it was still quite early when I left him. Why do 
you say it was late?” he repeated, insistent, almost 
angry. 

She looked at him sharply. “It seemed late to 
me.” Her words were hurried, troubled. “I came 
down at eleven. Stuart seemed a little feverish and 
I thought it might be well to send for a doctor. I 
opened the door a little way and saw you and Gilbert 
talking together. You seemed very much occupied, 
and I knew”—wearily—“that Gilbert would say 
that it was only a mother’s absurd alarm and refuse 
to call the doctor at that time of night. It was just 
eleven.” 

At this repetition of the hour, Thomas Matchem 
raised his eyes, glanced at her keenly, dropped his 
eyes again, but said nothing. Denise went on: 

“I heard the clock strike as I closed the door. 
I went back to Stuart and didn’t see Gilbert again. 
You were with him after I went upstairs, Curtis, 
and you say he seemed all right—then?” 

“Well, he certainly seemed quite himself,” said 


16 


THE KEY 


Curtis, slowly, with an odd sidelong look at Denise. 
Was he wondering how much of his conversation 
with his brother she had heard? Or what was it 
that gave his eyes that sinister gleam? It was gone 
in a flash and he went on: “Of course, one can never 
tell, with a heart like his-” 

Thomas Matchem swiftly put his hand on his 
cousin’s arm: “Shut up, Curt,” he said. “No use 

to- 99 Turning, he continued, in a louder tone, 

“We’ll take a hack at the door, Denise. If Gil¬ 
bert’s asleep, that’ll wake him, and if he’s fainted— 
or—or anything—we’ll have to break the lock, since 
Gilbert’s never trusted any one with a key to this 
room. Get an axe, James, will you, and be as quick 
as you can.” 

The valet, glad of action, hurried through the hall 
and in a surprisingly short time returned with an 
axe, which appeared oddly incongruous in his soft, 
plump white hands. 

Tom Matchem’s quizzical mouth turned up with 
an odd quirk as he saw the valet address the axe to 
the door. 

“Give it to me, James,” he said, “and stand back 
all of you. Denise, stand a little farther back, 
please. Now-” 

With a wide swing of his disproportionately long 
arms, with a strength of which no one would have 
thought him capable, Tom sent the axe crashing 
against the lock. He waited after the first re¬ 
sounding, reverberating blow—and listened. 





MORNING 


1 7 

No sound within the locked room. He raised the 
axe again and blow after blow rained on the stout 
door. At last the lock gave with such suddenness 
that he almost fell into the room beyond. He kept 
his balance by catching hold of a heavy portiere 
which hung partly across the door. Swiftly, he 
swung it back out of the way. 

“Gilbert!” he cried: “Gilbert!” 

The huge room was gray and still. Heavy storm 
clouds obscured the light from the glass roof high 
above his head. Faint rays only filtered through 
the narrow slits far up on the wall, and otherwise 
there was no light at all save a yellow gleam that ran 
along the edge of a heavy purple velvet curtain, 
drawn partly across the far side of the room. 

The Others followed as Thomas Matchem swiftly 
ran across the floor. 

“Gilbert,” he cried again, and caught the heavy 
curtain in his hand. 

As he did so, his body stiffened and he seemed to 
grow inches taller. He stood thus with hand half 
raised for an instant. Then slowly he turned. His 
face was gray-white. 

“Take Denise away, Curtis,” he said, in a voice 
no one had ever heard him use before. “Take her 
away. It’s—all—over! ” 


CHAPTER III 
The Shadow of Death 

A STRANGE gasping sigh, almost a cry, broke 
^ from Denise Fane’s parted lips. 

“Tom, Tom! You can’t mean-” she started 

forward. “He may have fainted! You can’t mean 
that Gilbert is-” 

A few quick strides and Tom was beside her. 
Gently grasping her cold hands in his he said 
solemnly: 

“He’s gone, Denise. There is no hope—none. 
There is nothing that you or any of us can do now. 
Take her away, Curtis.” He caught his cousin’s 
eye, and holding his gaze firmly fixed, with a slight 
but imperative gesture motioned them away. “Find 
Martha and then come back,” he added, hurriedly. 
“Come back as quickly as you can. But find Mar¬ 
tha first. Don’t leave Denise alone.” 

There was a strange look in Curtis Fane’s quickly 
averted face. It was only a flash that Tom caught, 
but it struck him at the time and he was to remem¬ 
ber it later. ... A look of fear—horror—a 
dawning comprehension of what lay behind the velvet 
curtain? He could not be sure, and he had much to 
think of at the moment. 

18 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH 


19 

He watched Denise as Curtis supported her from 
the room, and then turned to James Haggerty, the 
valet, who stood near by, a wild look on his hand¬ 
some old face. 

“We’ll have to get Doctor Holmes, James, at 
once,” he said, “and after that-” 

“Then heisn’t really dead, sir?” cried James, eagerly. 
“There’s some hope if it’s a doctor you’re want¬ 
ing-” 

Thomas Matchem shook his head. 

“No, James. He’s gone. But we must have a 
doctor. Telephone for Doctor Holmes and see if 
he can come over at once. Go as fast as you can.” 

The old man’s face was a study of emotions. He 
gulped quickly, passed a trembling hand across his 
white face, and recovered himself sufficiently to 
obey. 

Left alone, Thomas Matchem stood stock still in 
the middle of the great octagonal room. He looked 
about him at the high stone walls, pierced far up on 
each side with a group of narrow windows. Between 
the windows the space was filled with the famous col¬ 
lection of arms and armour of which Gilbert Fane had 
been so proud. Below, except where there was a 
huge fireplace, shelves containing rare and valuable 
books filled five sides of the room to a height of at 
least twelve feet from the floor. The space enclosed 
by the three remaining walls could, at will, be cut off 
from the rest of the room by the heavy curtains, now 
partly drawn, behind one of which a light still 



20 


THE KEY 


burned, its rays falling upon- Thomas Matchem 

shuddered at the thought of what lay there, so still 
and awful. He controlled himself with an effort 
and his eyes travelled about the room. 

He knew that the walls of the space, partly hidden 
by the curtain, were completely filled with carefully 
wrought drawers of steel (almost like those of a 
safety vault) where were kept the most valuable 
things in Gilbert Fane’s great collections—priceless 
books and manuscripts, coins of every age and coun¬ 
try, rare gems- 

“Walls of stone and steel,” thought Thomas 
Matchem to himself, “and one locked door. . . . 

And yet-” 

At the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall with¬ 
out he moved nearer to the door. 

“Doctor Holmes is in and will come at once, sir,” 
said James, advancing a little way into the room. 
“Is there anything more that I can do? Shall 
I-” 

“Here’s Mr. Curtis now,” interrupted Matchem. 
“You’d better wait—here, near the door.” 

As Curtis Fane appeared, Tom met him and, 
taking him firmly by the arm, led him halfway 
across the great room and out of earshot of the old 
servant before he spoke. 

“It’s worse than I could tell you before Denise,” 
he said in a hushed voice. “You’ll need all your 
strength, Curt, to bear this. God help us all—it 
looks like-” 



THE SHADOW OF DEATH 


21 


“For God’s sake, speak, man,” cried Curtis. 
“What is it? Isn’t it enough that Gilbert’s dead— 
dead. What more-?” 

“Murder,” whispered Matchem. “It looks—it 
must be murder, Curtis.” 

Fane reeled and caught at a chair for support. 
Fearfully, he glanced sidewise at the concealing cur¬ 
tain. Then he slipped down into the chair and 
buried his face in his hands. 

“Tell me,” he said in a choking voice, “tell me 
what has happened.” 

“I can’t tell you that, Curt. My God! How 
could it have happened ? The door was locked and 
there’s no other way of getting into this room—no 
possible way.” 

“Of course not,” muttered Fane. “And it can’t 
be—what you say. It must have been his heart. 
It’s been weak for years. What makes you 
think-?” 

“Come and see,” said Thomas Matchem in an 
awed voice. “Come and see for yourself.” 

For several moments the stricken brother re¬ 
mained seated, his face still covered by his hands. 
Then, as Matchem’s hand fell on his arm, he made a 
visible effort and rose. 

Slowly, together, they crossed the wide silent 
room and approached the purple hanging. Softly 
they stepped, as if fearing to wake a sleeper. How 
still it was! How frightfully, ominously still! 

They passed the curtain’s edge. 



22 


THE KEY 


“Ah-h-h -God!” 

Curtis Fane’s strangled cry rang through the 
room. One look, and he had turned, and clutching 
Matchem’s arms in both his hands, he buried his face 
on his cousin’s shoulder. 

Tom held him in a grip of steel. 

“Hold up, Curt,” he whispered. “Hold up, old 
man. . . . God help us all,” he added, rever¬ 

ently. Then slowly his eyes turned from the bowed 
head of the younger brother to the bowed head of the 
brother who had gone to his account. 

Prone upon the library table it was, the face half- 
turned, the eyes wide open, staring, horrible, filled 
with a look of fear and of anguish. The arms were 
spread wide upon the table top, the hands rigid and 
set like claws, though they grasped nothing. The 
body rested partly in a chair, was partly supported 
by the table, as if the man had been standing and had 
sunk and fallen forward. The upper portion of the 
body was clothed in a fine thin shirt that had once 
been white—was white still save where a broad red 
stain had spread from a heavy-hiked dagger stand¬ 
ing almost upright in the wound it had ruthlessly 
made. 

“Stabbed—in the back,” muttered Thomas Mat- 
chem. “No chance for his life. And yet he must 
have seen something—must have known-” 

The terrified eyes of his dead cousin held him with 
almost hypnotic power. What had they seen? What 
had they recognized in the assailant who had taken 



THE SHADOW OF DEATH 


23 

his life? If those clenched teeth and rigid parted 
lips could only relax and speak. . . . But they 

remained still, frozen in immutable silence. 

After a long time Curtis Fane stirred and slowly 
raised his head, though his hands still gripped his 
cousin’s arms. 

“He was stabbed. . . . Gilbert—stabbed 

. . .” he repeated, dazedly. “How could it have 

happened, Tom? The door was locked ... on 
the inside. . . .” He gazed eagerly, question- 

ingly, into the brown eyes so near his own. “We 
both know there was only one key—Gilbert’s. 
Help me think, Tom. Help me-” 

“He’d evidently locked himself in.” Tom con¬ 
sidered deeply, and again his eyes travelled all about 
the room. “There certainly was no one here when 
we broke in. . . . No place for concealment. 

. . . No closets. . . .” 

“No,” agreed Curtis, shuddering and keeping his 
back turned to the awful, still form of his brother. 
“There’s no place to look here. There’s nothing to 
be gained by searching. . . . No reason why 

we should stay here, Tom.” His tone was almost 
pleading, and Matchem caught himself wondering 
at the lack of moral courage in one whose physical 
courage had never been questioned. 

“No,” answered Tom, slowly. “Perhaps we can 
think more clearly somewhere else. We’ll leave 
James on guard at the door and wait for the doctor 
outside.” Then, as they started across the room, he 



THE KEY 


24 

added, “I’ve sent for Doctor Holmes—and we must 
notify the police, too, Curtis.” 

The other frowned heavily, but nodded his head. 
“Do what’s necessary, Tom,” he said, moistening 
his dry lips. “I can’t think. . . . I’ll leave it 

all to you.” 

Tom shrugged his lean shoulders. 

“It’s a hell of a long way out of my line. Curt. 
I—hardly know what ought to be done in a case like 
this. But of course the doctor—and since it must 
be murder, I suppose the police—should be called in. 
I don’t know anything about the local police, except 
the traffic man in the village—I don’t know whom to 
call. Perhaps James would know. I’ll ask-” 

“Holy Mother of God! What’s that?” 

The valet, who had started toward them, stopped 
suddenly, peering intently toward the opposite wall. 
His pale face was chalk-white. The axe and a few 
splinters of wood, which he had picked up near the 
door, clattered to the floor. 

“Something—something moved—on the wall over 
there.” He pointed a trembling finger. “A black 
shadow . . . moved . . . and was gone. 

. . . I heard-” His voice lost itself in his 

throat. 

Both men turned, instinctively, and looked where 
he had pointed. 

After a moment Tom moved forward and put his 
hand on the valet’s arm. 

“There’s nothing there, James,” he said, kindly. 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH 


25 

“Nothing but the things that are always there, the 
armour and stuff—not a damn thing that could possi¬ 
bly move. All this excitement and horror—it’s 
enough to make anybody’s senses play tricks- 99 

“It wasn’t that, Mr. Tom,” whispered the servant, 
shivering. “Something—horrible—moved, high up 
on the wall over there . . . something dark and 

shadowy—and now it’s gone.” 

There was a creeping sensation of awe in the man’s 
tone, which, combined with his certainty that he 
really had seen something, caused Tom to cross to the 
wall indicated and examine it as closely as it was 
possible to do from the floor. What he half ex¬ 
pected to see, he could not have told. What he did 
see, as he gazed intently upward, was a great, curved, 
damascened shield surmounted by a helmet of the 
same date and workmanship and surrounded by a 
sheaf of exquisitely wrought swords—nothing more; 
and these had hung there ever since he came to Tower 
Hall, more than nine years before; had hung there, as 
he knew, ever since Gilbert Fane had taken possession 
of the place, which had been especially designed by 
him to house his wonderful collections. 

“There’s nothing there,” said Tom, reassuringly, 
as he returned. “Nothing for any one to see.” 

The old servant shook his head. 

“You wouldn’t see it, I have no doubt,” he said, 
scarcely above his breath, still gazing across the room, 
with a strange look in his wide, light-coloured eyes. 
“There’s them that can see . . . and them that 


2 6 


THE KEY 


can’t . . . and Death in the room . . 

He shivered again and drew slowly back toward 
the door, keeping his white face turned toward the 
room. 

Once outside, he pulled himself together with a 
great effort, seeming to shake off some haunting 
presence. He turned to Thomas Matchem with a 
glance in which was a hint of half-concealed superior¬ 
ity. 

“There’s them that have no book-learning, Mr. 
Tom,” he said, slowly, “that yet can see—can use the 
senses God gives ’em. But the same is not for those 
that believe in nothing but science, Mr. Tom. What 
you can prove . . . The Master gone. . . . 

Death in the house. ... A black shadow— 
with nothing to cast the same. . . . Death 
. . . Death. . . And he moved off, mut¬ 

tering to himself. 


CHAPTER IV 


Between Midnight and Two in the Morning 

/ T V HE morning of October i, 19—, was a startling 
A one in the village of Bernard Ridge, for in these 
small places off the railroad news travels swiftly by 
word of mouth, as it did in the days of our forefathers. 

Somebody saw the town clerk run around the cor¬ 
ner and speak excitedly to Warren Holt as he stood 
at his post, where the village street crossed the state 
road, stopping and clearing traffic with a wave of his 
short blue-clothed arm. Several loungers saw the 
two men, after a moment’s consultation, leave the 
crossing unprotected and dash into the corner drug 
store. The traffic policeman turned back at the door 
and called to a man on the other side of the street. 

“Say, Fred,” he bellowed, “Bill’s puttin’ storm 
sash up to your house to-day, ain’t he?” 

“Yep. Been cornin’ fer the last week, and got 
there this mornin’. What’s the trouble, Warren? 
Ain’t goin’ to take him off my job, are you?” 

“Got to, Fred,” hastily. “Hell’s to pay up to 
Tower Hall, and Bill Shaeffer’s got to quit bein’ a 
carpenter and be the chief of police of Bernard Ridge, 
like he ought to.” 


27 


28 


THE KEY 


The man called Fred expostulated all the way 
across the street and into the drug store, but he was 
stricken to silence by the character of the news im¬ 
parted by Warren Holt to his chief over thetelephone. 
It was no trouble to listen in, for though the policeman 
spoke discreetly from a booth, the effect of his care 
was marred by the fact that the glass of one entire 
side of the booth was missing. 

Owing to the occupation of the chief of police in one 
of his various jobs as handy-man of the village, there 
was some delay in the arrival of the local policemen 
at Tower Hall. 

Being, for his position in life, unusually conversant 
with his duties, William Shaeffer had at once notified 
the County Prosecutor at Morrisville and had tele¬ 
phoned to the Coroner’s house, only to find that that 
official, who was also the village undertaker, was 
away at a funeral and not expected home before three 
o’clock in the afternoon. 

Upon receiving the assurance of the Coroner’s wife 
that she would send her husband the moment he re¬ 
turned, Shaeffer rushed home and changed from blue 
jeans to blue cloth. This dressing of the part, which 
to his mind was absolutely essential, caused a still 
further delay, so that it was nearing eleven o’clock 
when a little old Ford ran panting up the hill to the 
great house, stopped, breathless, before its broad en¬ 
trance, and the two policemen dashed up the steps. 

They tried to still the clatter of their heavy shoes 
as they were ushered in, so silent and vast did the 


, BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND TWO A.M. 29 

spacious hall seem to them. Instinctively they drew 
together as they crossed the threshold of the tower 
room, and each waited for the other to speak. 

Curtis Fane was there, and Doctor Holmes and 
Thomas Matchem, all three standing in a little group 
near the centre of the room. Fane, who seemed to 
have recovered to a large extent his usual manner, 
left the others and advanced toward the door. 

“How are you, Bill?” he said, quietly, in a friendly 
tone, and nodding at the other man. “How are you, 
Warren? Sorry to bring you all the way out here, 
when, apparently, there’s nothing to be done. Mr. 
Matchem and I have looked all the ground over and 

there seems to be nothing to indicate- But you’d 

better see for yourself.” 

They talked a few minutes more in low tones, and 
Thomas Matchem should have been greatly reassured 
as to his cousin’s state of mind, seeing how completely 
Curtis had regained his poise. But was Tom al¬ 
together satisfied ? What had come over him, stu¬ 
dious, detached, absent-minded book-worm that he 
was, that he should follow his cousin’s every word, 
every movement, with troubled, searching eyes—with 
cautiously veiled concern ? 

He had listened, without comment, when Curtis 
had explained to Doctor Holmes that he had been 
with his brother until shortly after eleven o’clock on 
the previous night; that he had left him at that hour 
in apparent good health and spirits. This was after 
the doctor had examined the body and reported his 



THE KEY 


30 

opinion that death must have taken place somewhere 
between the hours of midnight and two in the morn¬ 
ing. Death was practically instantaneous, Doctor 
Holmes thought. There had probably been no 
movement after the blow was struck except the sink¬ 
ing down of the body. 

Was it possible to determine these facts accurately? 
Tom wondered. Doctor Holmes, an old friend of the 
family, had practically retired, but Tom knew that he 
had stood at the head of his profession in the state. 
His opinion would carry weight. 

Between twelve and two . . . Tom glanced 

again at the great clock in the corner. It had 
stopped at eleven minutes past one, precisely. What 
had caused it to stop just at that moment? Tom 
was far from being superstitious, but he caught him¬ 
self wondering again why the clock had stopped, 
even while he listened to his cousin’s courteous ex¬ 
planations to the local authorities. 

William Shaeffer, chief of police, was evidently 
taking his part in the proceedings seriously. He 
was considerably overawed by his surroundings, and 
his first sight of what lay behind the purple curtain 
gave him a sickening qualm which almost over¬ 
mastered him. His naturally phlegmatic tempera¬ 
ment, however, came to his rescue, and while he was 
perplexed by the unusual nature of his task, he had 
read so vast a number of mystery and detective 
stories that he was enabled to model his conduct 
somewhat closely upon that of his favourite heroes. 


BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND TWO A.M. 31 

Tom, for a secret reason of his own, was glad to note 
that while the officer examined the body and its sur¬ 
roundings with close attention, he was careful not 
to touch or disturb anything. 

“It beats hie,” ejaculated Shaeffer, fervently, after 
a prolonged silence, “how it could have happened 
at all in this room—and with the door locked, as you 
say.” 

“Yes,” agreed Curtis, readily, “as you say, Bill, 

it beats us all. The door was locked-” 

“And the key on the inside,” added Shaeffer. 

“I noticed it as I came in. Now how the hell- 

I beg your pardon,” he interrupted himself, with an 
awed glance aside, “I mean how could it have been 
done at all, let alone who did it?” He rubbed his 
fingers back and forth through his thick rough hair 
in overwhelming perplexity. “There ain’t no other 
way to get into this room, I know, myself, for a fact, 
’cause I was on the job when the place was built. 
There ain’t none of these here secret passages like you 
read about.” There was a note of injury in his tone, 
as if he felt that he would have come out strong if 
there had been a secret passage. 

Curtis Fane shook his head, in apparent agreement 
with the policeman’s statement. “And yet my broth¬ 
er has been foully done to death,” he said, tragic¬ 
ally, “and as far as I can see it will always remain 

a mystery. What hope is there-•” 

“Well,” said Shaeffer, shrewdly, “he didn’t kill 
himself, that’s a cinch. And whoever done it got 




THE KEY 


32 

in and out of this here place somehow. I swear it 
beats my time, but I’ve read about fellers that would 
have told you in five minutes just how the thing 
was pulled. There’s detectives to New York that’s 
got good reputations, Mr. Fane. Don’t you think 
you’d ought to put one of them on the job?” He 
spoke eagerly, for he would have been thrilled to the 
core to meet one of the expert metropolitan detec¬ 
tives. 

Again Curtis shook his head. 

“What’s the use?” he asked, wearily, including 
Tom and Doctor Holmes in the despondent glance 
which he threw about the room. “Nothing will 
bring my poor brother back to life—nothing. I 
know it would be his wish that the whole thing should 
be kept as quiet as possible—for the sake of his wife 

and little son—for the sake of the name- If, 

by any chance, it can be kept out of the papers-” 

He looked appealingly at Doctor Holmes and the two 
policemen. 

The latter glanced doubtfully at each other, 
knowing full well that the tragedy was already the 
sensation of the countryside. Doctor Holmes spoke. 

“I don’t see how it will be possible to keep it out 
of the papers, Curtis,” he said. “The coroner will 
have to be called-” 

“Oh, it’s all so ghastly, so terrible!” Fane broke 
out, wiping the perspiration from his narrow fore¬ 
head. “I can’t bear any more. I’ll have to leave it 
to you, Tom. I’ve stood all I can. You do what 




BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND TWO A.M. 33 

you think best, you and Doctor Holmes. Give me a 
little time. IT 1 pull myself together—only, for 
God’s sake, keep it quiet if you can—for the sake of 

Denise and little Stuart-” His voice broke and 

he hurried from the room. 

There were sympathy and pity for the stricken 
man in the eyes of the two policemen, for Curtis Fane 
was very popular in the village of Bernard Ridge. 
He always had a gay, easy word for everyone with 
whom he came in contact, and if his show of particu¬ 
lar friendliness to Bill Shaeffer and Warren Holt had 
been due merely to the motorist’s wish to stand in 
with the traffic men, they were too simple and kindly 
to interpret it thus. 

“We’ll do anything we can, Mr. Matchem,” said 
Shaeffer, “but,” apologetically, “we had to notify 
Frank Bates, the coroner, you know. There ain’t 
no other way. It’s the law.” 

“Yes, it’s the law. There ain’t no other way,” 
echoed Warren Holt. 

“And I ’phoned the county Prosecutor at Morris- 
ville, too,” went on Shaeffer, ignoring Holt’s modest 
effort to get into the conversation. “It’s part of my 
duty, you know, Mr. Matchem. He said he’d be 
sending over a couple of detectives this afternoon.” 

“Detectives—from Morrisville,” repeated Tom, 
slowly. “H’m- Yes ... I see. . . .” 

Something in Matchem’s tone made Shaeffer say, 
hurriedly: 

“I’m sorry it had to be done if you and Mr. Fane 


THE KEY 


34 

feel there’s nothing to be gained by it. Lot of 
strange men in the house at a time like this. . . . 

I can see the trouble it is, of course. But I thought I 
was doing the right thing. And it was my duty-” 

“Of course, of course,” assented Thomas Mat- 
chem, and added, “What time will the Coroner be 
here, Shaeffer, do you know?” 

“Sometime after three this afternoon, Mr. Mat- 
chem. He can’t get here before.” 

“And the detectives?” 

“The prosecutor said he couldn’t get any one on 
the job before this afternoon sometime. Might be 
late. Around three or four, he thought. He told 
me to be looking out for ’em about that time.” 

“Very well, Shaeffer. Thank you,” said Tom. 
“The village ought to be very glad to have so com¬ 
petent a man as you at the head of its police.” 

The note of dismissal in the quiet voice was not 
to be misunderstood by the most obtuse. William 
Shaeffer, though unlearned, was far from being 
stupid. He nodded in acquiescence, took his silent 
and staring colleague by the arm, crossed the great 
room, and disappeared. 

As he left the house his unspoken thoughts ran 
thus : 

“The door was locked . . . from the inside 

. . . and there ain’t no other way to get into 

that room. I knows that for a fact. ... If 
there was only a secret passage. But there ain’t. 
I was on the job the hull time. . . .” Suddenly 


BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND TWO A.M. 35 

his thought was checked as if it had caught on a 
nail: “At least I was on the job as soon as they 
needed carpenters . . . but before that . . . 

Them stone walls is thick . . . And them swell 

cabinet workers they had out from New York for the 
finishing . . . Gosh!” His eye lighted, “I 

wonder. 0 » 


CHAPTER V 
Mr. Fletcher Kenyon 


HOMAS MATCHEM was a man of many 



peculiarities, many idiosyncrasies. Though 
still young he had achieved quite a reputation for his 
expert knowledge of various natural sciences. He 
knew birds and beasts intimately, scientifically. 
He was a first-class entomologist and no mean botan¬ 
ist. His natural tastes had led him into no position 
of emolument previous to his employment by his 
cousin, Gilbert Fane, and he had accepted the posi¬ 
tion of secretary with alacrity as it gave him plenty 
of leisure to pursue his hobbies. 

Among these, and his chief hobby for the moment, 
incongruously enough, was a second-hand Challet 
car which he had recently bought and learned to 
drive. The Challet was an almost unheard-of make 
and was constantly in need of repair, but was, for 
some reason best known to himself, the pearl of 
cars in his eyes. Modest as he ordinarily appeared, 
he had been known openly to boast of the wonders 
it could do on the road. 

It was in this small car, therefore, that Thomas 
Matchem might have been seen, shortly after the 


MR. FLETCHER KENYON 37 

two policemen left Tower Hall, speeding through the 
woods from Bernard Ridge toward Morrisville. 

His face was set and inscrutable, but there was an 
anxious light in his usually calm brown eyes. The 
events of the morning were sufficiently hideous and 
tragic to unsettle the most imperturbable nature, 
but there was something more than this in Matchem’s 
present state. After careful consideration he had 
come to a momentous decision, but he was still 
greatly troubled in his mind. ^ 

“I can’t think of anything safer to do.^I’m afraid 
it’s all risky as hell,” he said to himself, as he hurried 
along at the topmost speed of the small car. “ James 
Haggerty is faithful, I’m sure—and entirely un¬ 
suspicious. He’ll guard the door and let no one— 
except Curtis-Well, that can’t be helped. . . .” 

His thoughts kept pace with the car and he was 
still arguing with himself, now this way and now that, 
when he slowed down, perforce, in the busy streets 
of the county seat. There he parked his car before 
the principal drug store, and entering, sought a 
telephone booth. He remained inside for some time, 
but when he emerged there was a look of relief if not 
of satisfaction on his face. 

Without waste of time, he entered his car, slam¬ 
med the door, and started homeward, returning as 
swiftly as he had come. 

He was well on the way, had even calculated the 
precise moment when he would arrive at Tower Hall, 
when the car stopped. 


THE KEY 


38 

“Oh, damn!” cried Tom, pressing the starter. 

A thin buzz — zz —and nothing more. 

Tom leaped from the seat and threw back the 
hood. With his usual scientific thoroughness he 
had made himself conversant with its entire internal 
economy, but look as he would, he could see nothing 
wrong. At last a sudden thought struck him and 
with shame in his heart he examined the gasoline 
tank. It was quite empty. 

“I’m the damnedest, absent-mindedest fool that 
ever walked on two legs,” he said aloud as he looked 
down the road. “And a fool for luck,” he added, as 
he caught sight of a garage not far off. “It won’t 
take long——” 

He ran swiftly, evenly, in the manner of a trained 
athlete. No one would have suspected from his 
ordinary appearance that he was capable of such a 
burst of speed. In a few moments he had reached 
the garage, made his wants known, and was on his 
way back with the garage man in his service car, 
supplied with sufficient gas to drive his own car back 
to the garage. 

“Five gallons, please,” said Tom as he stopped 
before the garage. “I’m in a hurry. Can’t stop 
to have her filled up. How much is it altogether?” 
and he thrust his hands into his trousers pocket. 

As he did so, a blank look came over his face. He 
remembered then, for the first time, that when he 
had dressed so hurriedly in the morning, he had forgot¬ 
ten to change the money he usually carried from the 


MR. FLETCHER KENYON 


39 

trousers he had worn the afternoon before. There 
had been a small collection of nickels and dimes left 
over in the trousers he was wearing, sufficient to pay 
the telephone tolls, and the absence of the small roll 
of bills did not attract his attention at the time. 

Frowning with annoyance, he drew out a flat 
wallet from the inner pocket of his waistcoat, and 
taking from it a fifty-dollar bill, the smallest denom¬ 
ination it contained, he apologetically tendered it 
to the garage man. 

“My Gawd,” grunted the mechanic, as he looked 
at the yellow bill, “do all you fellows think a garage 
is a bank? Or what’s the big idea? I can’t change 
that. First of the month, too! And every man 
coming through here so lousy with money he can’t be 
bothered with anything smaller than fifties. Same 
thing happened last night. Man routed me out 
from a sound sleep, ’bout two. Car broke down. 
Had to tow him in. And the least he had was a 
fifty. No, I can’t change that, and you’ve got my 
gas aboard, and I don’t know you-” 

“My name’s Matchem, and I live in Bernard 
Ridge—Tower Hall,” said Tom, quickly. “You 
must have seen me pass here. As you say, I have 
the gas and I’ve got to get back right away but I’ll 
come, or send over the money this afternoon.” 

“Oh, I guess it’s all right,” said the garage man, 
relenting. “Guess I can trust you. Got a grouch 
this morning,” he added with a hint of apology in his 
voice. “Up last night. Always makes me cross as 



THE KEY 


40 

hell. Send the money over when convenient, 
Mr.—Mr. Matchem. No hurry/’ 

Tom’s smile was so engaging and his thanks so 
hearty that the garage man’s homely face relaxed as 
Tom drove rapidly away. 

“Just the same, it’s damn funny,” said the man 
as he watched the small car out of sight. “Two 
fifties offered me within a few hours, and neither of 

the men lookin’ as if-- Well, I guess this one’s 

honest, anyway . . . and the other. . . 

His grin broadened—“Gosh, he don’t owe me nothin’. 
I’ll tell the world.” 

In spite of the delay Tom was only a little late for 
lunch. He found no one but Curtis at the table. 
Denise, it appeared, was being served in the nursery 
with her little son. No one had seen her since the 
early morning except her old nurse, Martha, who 
reported that her mistress was bearing up bravely, 
but wished to see no one. 

The luncheon was a silent one. Neither of the 
men paid much attention to the elaborate menu. 
Awed servants put on and removed several courses, 
and it was not until the dessert had been placed and 
the servants had withdrawn that Tom spoke. 

“Curt,” he said, leaning forward and looking 
earnestly at his cousin, “you and I’ve got to face this 
thing and look at it squarely. It’s an ugly situation 
from every point of view, aside from the tragedy of 
poor Gilbert’s death. There’s sure to be a hideous 


MR. FLETCHER KENYON 


4i 

amount of newspaper talk. And you heard Shaeffer 
say they’re sending over police detectives from 
Morrisville this afternoon. It’s going to be a beastly 
situation for you.” 

“Why for me especially?” Curtis broke in almost 
roughly. On his young, careless, almost reckless 
face was plainly marked the strain he had under¬ 
gone. “Why not for all of us? Denise-” 

“For all of us,” Tom agreed, readily, “but since 
you’re more nearly related, particularly for you— 
and Denise.” He spoke the name softly, with pity 
and, perhaps, something more in his tone. “If I can 
do anything, anything in the world, to help, Curt, 
you know you can call on me. If there’s anything 
you want to tell me-” 

Fane turned on him angrily. 

“What should I want to tell you?” he asked. 
“You heard what I said to Doctor Holmes and those 
two idiots from the village. There’s nothing more to 
tell that I know of.” 

Tom, untouched by the other’s heat, replied quietly: 

“I want to work with you in this thing, Curt, if I 
can—if I can be of any assistance. It’s such a stag¬ 
gering thing for all of us—presents so strange a prob¬ 
lem. . . . And there are several things that have 

struck me. . . . Perhaps, if we put our heads 

together, we might hit on some possible solution.” 

“The scientific mind turned on crime?” said Cur¬ 
tis, with a slight grin. 

Tom shrugged his shoulders. 



A.2 


THE KEY 


“I know Im not much good at what you fellows 
call the practical things of life, Curt, but you must 
admit I have trained myself to observe things— 
and—did you notice that the clock in the tower room 
had stopped?” 

“ Wouldn’t have to be very highly trained to see 
that, when the face of the clock is nearly a foot 
across,” replied Curtis. “Yes, I noticed it. What 
of it?” 

“Nothing,” said Tom, quietly, with an odd look, 
almost of appeal in his eyes. “Nothing. I was just 
thinking. . . .” 

There was a slight pause, during which Tom rose, 
restlessly, from his seat, and began to pace back and 
forth before the long row of windows which faced 
the lawns and drive. 

After a few moments, without raising his voice, he 
asked: 

“Do you remember, Curt, what time Denise was 
downstairs last night?” 

“She said the clock struck eleven as she stood by 
the door,” answered Fane. “It was soon after that 
I went up myself. Ten minutes past. I looked at 
my watch-” 

“You looked at your watch,” repeated Tom, 
slowly, gravely. “Well, that settles that.” 

“What do you mean by saying ‘That settles that/ 
in such a tone? What settles what?” 

Tom was looking down the drive where a cab had 
just come into view. 



MR. FLETCHER KENYON 


43 


“Only that you and Denise agree on the time that 
the family saw Gilbert last,” said Tom, quietly, and 
added after a moment: “Who’s this coming, Curtis? 
Do you expect any one?” 

Fane jumped from his seat and joined Tom at the 
window. 

“No,” he said, vexedly, “unless it’s more of the 
damned police.” 

Both men observed a stranger alight from a cab 
and dismiss it. In a moment a servant appeared at 
the dining-room door with a card on a tray which he 
presented to Tom. 

Matchem glanced at it, frowned, and turned to his 
cousin. 

“This is awkward, Curt, and I don’t know what to 
do. I wrote last week to Fletcher Kenyon to come 
down and value those last manuscripts for Gilbert. 
He’s the greatest expert in this country, you know. 
His time is valuable and he’ll be greatly annoyed. 
I ought to have wired him not to come, but so much 
has happened. . . .” * 

“Yes,” said Curtis. “Damned awkward. Came 
down by Gilbert’s appointment . . . and the 

things will have to be valued sometime, I suppose.” 

“Perhaps I can persuade him to wait over,” said 
Tom. If there was a hint of eagerness in the tone, 
Curtis interpreted it as being due to his interest as 
a book-lover in the collections. 

Tom left the room at once and went in search of 
Fletcher Kenyon. As he crossed the hall he glanced 


THE KEY 


44 

toward the closed door of the tower room where 
James Haggerty remained on guard, and nodded to 
himself. 

“I think I’ll have no difficulty in persuading Flet¬ 
cher Kenyon to wait over,” he thought, and the 
gravity on his face deepened: “To wait over and 
examine . . . the manuscripts.” 


CHAPTER VI 


P. C. 


HOMAS MATCHEM glanced again at the 



card he had been holding in his hand. The 
name, Fletcher Kenyon, was written on it in a small, 
crabbed hand, and in the corner the same hand had 
inscribed the letters P. C. 

Tom advanced into the reception room and looked 
curiously at the slight bent figure which slowly rose 
from a chair at his approach. He saw a thin,'young¬ 
ish face with irregular features and mild blue eyes 
which were aided and protected by large tortoise¬ 
shell-rimmed spectacles. Above the face shone a 
thick mop of red hair untinged by gray. The stoop 
of the body was obviously due to studious and seden¬ 
tary habits and not to any great length of years. 

The stranger spoke at once in a slow, quiet drawl. 

“Mr. Gilbert Fane, I suppose.” 

Tom started and shook his head. 

“No, Mr. Kenyon. Im Mr. Fane’s secretary, 
Thomas Matchem. I must explain to you at once 
that. . . .” His voice dropped and the two 

men talked in a low tone for some little time. At 
length they moved slowly to the door and across the 


45 


THE KEY 


46 

hall. At the entrance to the tower room James 
Haggerty heard the stranger say: 

“It may take less time than you think, Mr. 
Matchem, though there seems to be a good deal of 
material to go over. At any rate, Til give you my 
opinion of the—of the manuscripts, and perhaps I 
can get back to town to-night. My nerves aren’t 
easily disturbed, and if you think there’ll be no objec¬ 
tion on the part of the family.” 

“I think not,” said Tom, confidently, and mo¬ 
tioned James to open the door. 

Once inside, the stranger’s appearance underwent 
a startling change. All indication of age dropped 
from him as if it had been a garment. Before the 
echo of the closing door had ceased to reverberate 
he had turned and was examining it with eyes and 
fingers. The damaged lock was still in place. Only 
the trim, where the bolt had slipped into its socket, 
was torn and shattered. There was no aperture 
through which a curious eye could observe what went 
on inside the room. 

Satisfying himself of this, the stranger’s bent form 
straightened and with a swift movement he placed 
the stick, on which he had been leaning, against the 
door in such a position that it would fall if the door 
was opened the merest crack. 

At the same moment he pulled off his large spec¬ 
tacles, stuffed them in his pocket, and with a quick 
motion of his head toward the door asked in an 
undertone: 


P. c. 


47 


“Is the man to be trusted?” 

“Not to come in?” said Tom in the same guarded 
tone. “Yes. He won’t come in, nor admit any 
one except a member of the family. The Coroner is 
expected at three. . . .” 

The red head nodded decisively. 

“Then there’s no time to lose, Mr. Matchem. If 
you’ll just set the stage for Mr. Fletcher Kenyon over 
there,” he pointed to a table which stood in front of 
the fireplace, “I’ll resume his part the instant that 
stick against the door falls, or before, if possible. . . . 
The body is behind that curtain?” 

“Yes, Mr. Clancy.” 

“Hush. Better cut that out even when we’re 
alone, so there’ll be no slips. Clever stunt of yours 
to put off Mr. Kenyon this morning, and let me take 
his place, but remember from now on, Mr. Matchem, 
that you’ve never heard of Peter Clancy. Try to 
forget that I’m a detective except when I remind you 
of it. Now, one question more. I think I have the 
dope pretty straight. You tell me that this is the 
only entrance. Are you sure that there’s no way 
to get into this room except by this door? Do you 
know of your own knowledge?’ 2, 

Tom hesitated. 

“Of course I can’t say absolutely. I wasn’t here 
when the tower was built, but I came shortly after, 
and I’m practically certain that there is no other way. 
Gilbert trusted me absolutely, in everything about 
his collections, which are all in this room-” 


THE KEY 


48 

“Except that he did not give you a key to it?” 
The mild blue eyes seemed to have changed in colour 
as well as expression as they flashed a keen look at 
Thomas Matchem. 

“No, he trusted no one with a key. He had but 
one which he always kept with him.” 

“This one in the door?” 

“Yes.” 

Clancy" stepped softly over and again he examined 
the key and the door, moving the heavy curtain 
which still hung part way across, so as to get a better 
light. 

He made no further remark, but motioning to 
Matchem to hasten with his laying out of the manu¬ 
scripts on the table by the fireplace, he passed across 
the room and disappeared behind the purple curtain. 

It took Tom but a few minutes to arrange the 
table, manuscripts, and chair to give verisimilitude 
to the part which Peter Clancy that morning over 
the telephone had agreed to play. He even added 
a large magnifying glass, paper, pens, and ink, and 
having completed the stage setting to his satisfac¬ 
tion, he hurriedly joined the detective. 

Clancy spoke before he reached the curtain, 
though Tom had crossed the room so quietly it 
seemed impossible that he could have been heard. 

“This is a queer sort of dagger, Mr. Matchem,” 
said the detective. “Have you ever seen one like 
it?” He was standing beside the body, gazing down 
gravely at the awful, still figure, with its staring, 


P. c. 


49 

terrified eyes, its clutching, empty hands; at the 
weapon whose rude entrance had made a way for the 
troubled spirit to escape. 

“I’ve seen that dagger many times,” Tom replied 
to his question. 

“So!” said Clancy with a sharp sidewise glance. 

“Yes. It’s an old Italian poniard belonging to Mr. 

Fane’s collection, but what puzzles me is-” 

Tom frowned and hesitated—“Unless . . .” and 

stopped. 

“What is it?” prompted Clancy, hastily. “Out 
with it, man. We haven’t a second to lose. Unless 
what?” 

“The poniard has always hung up there.” Tom 
pointed high up on the wall behind the dead man. 
“You can see a shred of the leather thong it hung 
by. Do you make it out?” 

“Right!” said Clancy, promptly. “Looks as if it 
had been tom away. But how could any one get it 
down without a ladder? Unless it has been off the 
wall for some time-” 

“No,” Tom interrupted, “I’m sure it hasn’t. I’ve 
been re-cataloguing the arms within the week and 
it was in place a day or two ago. I can swear to 
that.” 

“Were you using a ladder in making up your list ? ” 

“No. I know all the pieces pretty well by this 
time and there haven’t been so many added lately. 
I only had to list up the new ones on the diagrams.” 

“And this was one of them?” 



THE KEY 


5o 

“Oh, no. This poniard hung in that very spot 
when I came to Tower Hall nearly nine years ago.” 

“Then how do you imagine. . . .” 

Tom drew quite close to Clancy and pointed with 
extended forefinger to one of the steel drawers which 
lined the walls back of the silent and awful figure— 
to one particular drawer. It was situated about 
waist high from the ground and almost directly 
beneath the spot from which the dagger had been 
torn. 

“That drawer was open this morning,” he whis¬ 
pered. “Any of those drawers pulled halfway out 
will hold a man’s weight and more.” 

Clancy stepped back swiftly and gauged the 
distance with his eye. 

“It would take a tall man,” he muttered. “Yes, 
a tall man. I doubt if I. . . .” 

Quickly he passed around the end of the long table 
and pulled at the drawer in question. 

“If it was open this morning, it’s locked now,” 
he said, and turning swiftly, saw that Matchem was 
already holding out to him a small flat key. With a 
sharp, quickly veiled upward glance, Peter took the 
key, inserted it in the lock and pulled the drawer 
open. 

“Hello,” he ejaculated under his breath, and 
turned to Matchem with a curious look on his face. 
“This drawer’s nearly chock-a-block with cash!” 

Tom nodded. 

“That’s why I closed and locked it,” he said. 


P. c. 


51 

Peter's hand lifted to his face and he pinched his 
lean jaw meditatively. 

“ You closed it?" he asked, after a moment. 

“Yes. On account of the money. I thought it 
would be safer." 

“And you found the key already in the lock?" 

“Yes," answered Matchem, promptly. “The 
drawer was open and the key still in the lock." 

“Any of this cash missing, do you know?" 

“No idea," Tom shook his head. “No time to find 
out." 

“Do you know how much should be here?" 

“Seventeen hundred and fifty-eight dollars. I 
cashed the check myself." 

“Phew!” Clancy whistled softly. “Well, we'll 
talk about that later. Or here—wait a minute." 
He placed his foot on the partly open drawer and 
sprang upward. “Just could do it and that's all. 
A shorter man," he panted with the effort, “couldn't 

possibly reach. But someone as tall as I-" he 

glanced at Matchem. “Yes, you're right, it could 
have been reached this way . . . Now, just run 

over that cash and see if it's all there, while I-" 

He did not finish the sentence but went softly 
about examining the desk, the floor, and the walls, 
as high as he could reach, with the aid of a magnify¬ 
ing glass. Swiftly and methodically he tested all the 
steel drawers, tier on tier. With the exception of 
the one which Matchem said he had found open, 
they were all locked. 


52 


THE KEY 


The soft swish of stiff paper, as Tom counted and 
re-counted the money in the drawer, was the only 
sound in the great room. After a few minutes he 
raised his head. 

“Seven hundred and fifty-eight,” he said in a very 
low voice. “A thousand missing. One thousand— 
in fifties, I remember. Now, why should any 
one-” 

“Not take it all,” Clancy finished the sentence, 
staring absently at nothing. “Isn’t done in the best 
circles, that’s sure. There was some reason for leav¬ 
ing part. Now what was it? You’re positive about 
the amount? I mean couldn’t Mr. Fane have paid 
out some of it ? ” 

“Not until to-day,” answered Tom, quickly. “At 

least-” he hesitated. “I can only account for a 

possible five hundred. He had promised his brother 
a saddle horse which he was to get to-day. Gilbert 
instructed me to add that amount to the wage check 
for the month. He might have given that money 
to his brother last night, but he wouldn’t have paid 
out any more of it until this morning. He pays all 
the servants, outside and in, in cash on the first of 
every month.” 

“And twelve hundred and fifty-eight dollars was 
the pay roll? Just for servants,” said Clancy, 
computing swiftly. “ Good-night! ” 

“This is a big place,” said Matchem. “Takes a 
lot to run it. The farmers and all their men, and the 
gardeners, besides the indoor servants-” 



P. c. 


53 

“ And the whole bunch would know that he had a 
lot of cash on hand the last night of the month/’ 
mused Peter. “ Probably. Gives us quite a lot to 
choose from . . . only . . . how could any 
of ’em get in here . . . and out . . . and 
the door locked on the inside. . . . And why, 

tell me why, Mr. Matchem, if theft were the principal 
object of this”— he motioned to the tragically elo¬ 
quent figure of the dead man—“why should the thief 
have left nearly half the swag?” 


CHAPTER VII 


The Stick Falls 


OM’S thin scholarly face was a study as he 



looked down at the sheaf of bills, yellow and 
green, which he held in his hand. He shook his head 
in perplexity, and looked inquiringly at Clancy, 
who returned the look with interest. 

After a short pause Clancy spoke again: 

“Have you any theory, Mr. Matchem? Do you 
know anything about this queer business that could 
be of help ? This is no time to quibble or to hold out 
anything if you want me to find the criminal. It’s a 
damned puzzling case and I’m no clairvoyant.” 
He held Tom with his eyes. “You have reason to 
suspect somebody. Of that much I’m certain. No 
use beating about the bush. I knew it from the 
moment you ’phoned me. Now, who is it ? Let’s get 
down to cases.” 

“I-” Matchem hesitated and looked from the 

money in his hand to Peter and back again. “I 
can’t say I suspect anybody, Mr. Clancy. That is 
not an accurate statement. I don’t suspect any 
one-” 

“Then you know who committed this murder,” 


54 



THE STICK FALLS 


55 

Peter interrupted, peremptorily. “You know who 
had an object—who would have the readiest means 
of access—who had a grudge against your cousin, 
perhaps.” 

He hammered out the words, his keen glance bor¬ 
ing into Matchem’s downcast face. 

“No, no,” said Tom, hastily, but without raising 
his eyes. “You’re all wrong, Clancy. I have no 
idea who could have killed Gilbert. Not that! Not 
that! Nor have I any idea who could have taken 

part of this money and left the rest-” 

“If it had all been taken, you wouldn’t be so much 
at a loss?” queried Peter, keenly. 

Tom hesitated again before replying. 

“Perhaps,” he said, slowly. “No. I won’t 
think it. I can’t. It’s too preposterous, too hid¬ 
eous. No! No! My point’s this, Clancy, and I 
want to make it very clear to you. I’ll admit that 
there are circumstances which puzzle—trouble me 
like hell—and I was afraid—these country detectives 
coming here—I am afraid of what they may find— 
may suspect. I’m sure things can be explained 
satisfactorily, but I wanted to forestall any discov¬ 
ery on their part. I wanted to have a competent 
man here before anything was disturbed. I’d heard of 

you through Dick Schuyler and it seemed best-” 

“To have me down incog.,” supplied Peter. 
“Why? I can understand it as far as the servants 
are concerned—and the police. But you didn’t 
want—you still don’t want—any of the family to 


THE KEY 


56 

know. The family consisting of Mrs. Fane and her 
seven-year-old son, and Mr. Curtis Fane. I believe 
there are no others. Am I right ?” 

Tom nodded. 

“Then of course it’s obvious,” Peter went on, 
rapidly, “that the circumstances you speak of 
apply to one of them—not the little boy, naturally— 
not Mrs. Fane?” 

“Oh, my God, no!” 

There was something in the ejaculation which 
caused Clancy a momentary inward start of sur¬ 
prise. The denial he had expected, but the tone 
. ... He registered the words and the inflection 

even while he said: 

“Then that leaves-” 

The stick against the door fell with a crash. 

Before the echo had died away Peter had darted 
across the room, pulling his big spectacles from his 
pocket and adjusting them with lightning speed, and 
as the door opened, a bent, scholarly figure could 
be seen, standing by the table in front of the fire¬ 
place, peering down at the manuscript which lay 
thereon. Apparently so engrossed was he that he 
did not turn at the sound of footsteps and it was 
not until a voice at his elbow addressed him that he 
looked up. 

“Mr. Kenyon, I want you to meet my cousin, 
Mr. Curtis Fane,” said Tom, quietly. 

Clancy bowed, absently, glancing keenly at the 
newcomer from under his lowered lids. 


THE STICK FALLS 


57 

“It’s very good of you to be willing to undertake 
this work in the circumstances,” said Fane, in a low 
voice, “I must confess that I-” 

The so-called Mr. Fletcher Kenyon moved his 
hands slowly and shook his head. 

“Many men have died since these were written,” 
he said, placing a reverent hand on a yellow, illumi¬ 
nated page. “One man, more or less- And my 

time is not my own. I could not tell when I would 
be able to come again, and a chance to examine work 
like this isn’t to be had every day. If I don’t in¬ 
trude-” 

He sat down in the chair from which he had ap¬ 
parently risen at Fane’s entrance, and with slow and 
careful fingers turned a page of the manuscript. 

Hurriedly murmuring a polite phrase or two, Cur¬ 
tis Fane caught his cousin’s arm and moved with him 
toward the door. 

“God, what a cold-blooded fish,” he said in an 
undertone. “Gives me the shivers. How can he 
sit there calmly—and not thirty feet away, in the 
same room. . . .” He glanced back at the pur¬ 

ple curtain and hurriedly drew Tom through the 
half-open door, closing it carefully. It fitted its 
frame so well that it remained shut in spite of the 
damaged lock. 

In the great hall there were two men waiting. 
Though they wore ordinary business clothes, the 
type was unmistakable even to the uninitiated. 
“The detectives from Morrisville,” Tom thought, 



THE KEY 


58 

and he congratulated himself, as he looked at them, 
on his foresight in having an expert already on the 
ground. 

One was lean and short, the other, also short, was 
very stout. Both faces presented a mixture of cun¬ 
ning and hardness, a boldness due to official position 
which was not incompatible with a large degree 
of inefficiency. Tom felt that he knew the sort of 
questions they would be likely to ask even before 
either spoke. 

To relieve his cousin as much as possible, Tom 
bore the brunt of the inquiry. He answered all the 
routine questions quickly and clearly and with a 
show of helpfulness which obviously made a favour¬ 
able impression on Messrs. Small and Becker, the 
two plain-clothes men. The preliminaries over, all 
four crossed the hall and entered the tower room. 

Fletcher Kenyon, hard at work, scarcely raised 
his eyes when the door opened. Tom explained his 
presence there in a few words, and the detectives 
proceeded at once to make their examinations. 

“ There seems to be little enough to go on, I’m 
telling you,” said Small, the fat detective, after 
looking around for a while. ‘‘He was murdered, 
that’s sure. Nobody could do that to themselves,” 
he pointed. “A child could understand that. But 
what gets me is how did anybody get in and out 
again with the door locked on the inside. You’re 
sure it was-” 

“You saw for yourself,” said Matchem, quietly. 


THE STICK FALLS 


59 

“The door was locked and the key inside. We had 
to break it, as you know.” 

“Then there must be a secret way to get into this 
room,” said Becker, eagerly. “A trapdoor or-” 

He began looking at the floor more minutely, 
sounding it with a thick stick which he carried. 

“For God’s sake stop that noise,” Curtis broke 
out suddenly. “It’s just rank foolishness. There 
isn’t any secret entrance to this room any more than 
there is to the subway. I was here all the while the 
tower was being built, living in the old part of the 
house. I knew all my brother’s plans—everything 
about it. You’re just wasting your time, I assure 
you.” He spoke the last words in a calmer tone 
which gave weight to his statement. Becker desisted 
immediately. 

“It would have been kinda excitin’ if there had 
been one,” he said, regretfully. The passion for 
buried treasure and secret passages dies hard in the 
breasts of the most prosaic of mortals. 

At that moment there was a slight noise in the hall 
and the door was opened to admit the coroner. He 
made his examination with portentous gravity and 
without undue haste; expressed himself satisfied, and 
gave permission for the removal of the body. With 
unusual thoughtfulness, and, perhaps, an eye to busi¬ 
ness, being the village untertaker, he had brought 
two of his own men with him. 

There was a hideous moment (the most dreadful 
one in all that terrible day, Tom thought) when the 


60 THE KEY 

ancient poniard was withdrawn from its once living 
sheath. 

Curtis stood apart, with his back turned. His 
hands were tightly clenched, and great beads of 
sweat stood out on his pale face. Tom was close 
beside him, holding his cousin's arm in an iron grip. 
After a few moments Small crossed over to them and 
spoke. 

“ We've tested that there dagger for fingerprints," 
he said in a low tone, “and there's nothing clear at 
all. Don't seem to be a thing to go by. The way 
you’d grip it naturally wouldn’t leave much in the 
way of identification marks, but we had to make 
sure. Not much use of our taking it along. It’s a 
queer-looking thing, and valuable, I suppose." He 
glanced, appraisingly, at the vast number of priceless 
weapons on the wall. 

“Yes, it is of considerable value," Tom answered. 
“But take it, if you think best." 

“Guess there's no need," said the detective. “We 
can always find it here if we need it." 

“Certainly," Tom assured him, absently. He 
was listening to the muffled, stealthy sounds behind 
him; the pushing back of a chair, the heavy breath¬ 
ing of the undertaker's men; their slow, shuffling 
steps. Curtis was listening, too. Tom could feel 
the tremor of relief, the relaxing of tautened muscles 
when the door, at last, closed behind them. 

The two detectives remained but a few minutes 
after the coroner's men had carried all that was left 


THE STICK FALLS 61 

of Gilbert Fane up the great staircase to his own 
room. 

Small, who seemed to be the spokesman of the 
pair, told Matchem that they would report to the 
county prosecutor, and the two men took their 
departure. 

Curtis Fane retired immediately to his room, and 
Tom reentered the tower. 

He found Fletcher Kenyon still engrossed in his 
work, as he had been all the while the various officials 
were present. Clancy dropped his pose at once, 
when he saw that it was Matchem who had en¬ 
tered. 

“ Guard the door,” he said, swiftly, as he met Tom 
halfway across the room. “I must have another 
look, now that the body has been removed. Don’t 
let any one in without giving me time. . . .” 

It was really not many minutes, though it seemed 
a long time to Tom, before Clancy reappeared. He 
walked slowly across the room, his head bent as if in 
deep thought. It was not until he came quite close 
that his tall form straightened and he fixed Matchem 
with a glance as keen and sharp as a sword. 

“I want to talk to you,” he said in a low voice, the 
gravity of which made itself felt. “Come over 
here,” he led the way to the fireplace. “Now sit 
down and consult with Fletcher Kenyon about these 
manuscripts, in case any one comes in.” 

He seated himself beside the table and motioned 
Tom to draw up a chair close to his. 


62 THE KEY 

He waited a moment before he spoke. Then he 
asked abruptly: 

“Who took a paper from the table over there, 
Matchem?” 

Tom gasped and hesitated. 

“You know, or suspect.” Peter emphasized the 
words with rapidly tapping forefinger. “Who took 
a paper over a foot long and eight inches wide from 
the table on which the body was found? And who 
took it away, Matchem, after—many hours after the 
murder was committed?” 


CHAPTER VIII 

A Little Cake of Dried Red Clay 

'T^OM remained silent for a long time. Peter 
watched him covertly. At last Tom said: 

“Why do you think there was a paper, Clancy? 
And what makes you so sure about the—about the 
time ? ” 

“I can show you later,” said Peter. “It wouldn’t 
be safe just now.” He leaned toward the other and 
spoke scarcely above a whisper: “There’s blood— 
dried blood on the table—-a lot of it—must have 
flowed down under the shirt and spread when it 
struck the table. But there’s one place that’s clean 
—an oblong space, pretty sharply marked out at the 
bottom and up the two sides. It’s about the size of 
a legal document of some kind—too big and not the 
right shape for a book open or closed. If it had been 
a book, too, there wouldn’t have been a possibility of 
one long line of blood having run in under it. But 
what’s the use of my telling you all this, Matchem ? 
You know perfectly well that it was a paper. And I 
think you could make a pretty shrewd guess as to 
what sort of a paper it was—why it was taken—and 
who it was that took it.” 


63 


THE KEY 


64 

He waited a moment for Tom to reply. As he 
still remained silent, Peter Clancy went on: 

“That paper having been taken away after the 
body was found worried you a lot. You knew it was 
a dangerous thing to have done. That was why you 
wanted my help. I’m as sure as if you’d told me so 
yourself. And now that I’m here, and not likely to 
stay long unless we can cook up some reason for 
Fletcher Kenyon to keep on the job, you’re wasting 
my time and tying my hands by not coming across 
with what you know.” 

“I don’t know, Clancy,” said Matchem, looking 
at Peter with deep concern in every line of his plain, 
kindly face. “That’s the devil of it. I only suspect 
—and I may be all wrong. I’m sure that—*—” 
He spread out his hands. “How can I even say it? 
I’m sure that he’s innocent of the crime—that he’s 
only been injudicious—reckless-” 

“He,” repeated Clancy, sharply. “You mean 
Curtis Fane.” It was a statement, not a question. 

Matchem bowed his head. Peter watched him 
intently. 

“Come across with it, old man,” said Clancy in an 
encouraging tone, after a moment’s silence. “Get 
it off your chest. If your cousin has been—well— 
indiscreet—he hasn’t anything to fear from me. If 
you want him cleared—and think I can do it—you’d 
better give me the whole dope and be quick about it. 
You say you aren’t sure that he took the paper. 
Then what reason have you to think he did ?” 




A LITTLE CAKE OF RED CLAY 65 

“I saw it when we found—Gilbert/’ said Matchem, 
with every appearance of reluctance. “I noticed it 
as soon as I saw—the body. All in a flash, like a 
photograph on my mind it is. He had been writing. 
It was his own hand. . . . And I saw Curt’s 

name ... I don’t know how I could have seen 
so much, all in an instant—my eyes are trained, of 
course. It seemed to be the draught of a will.” 
There was a short pause. “I went upstairs to put 
on some clothes—and when I came back the paper 
was gone.” 

“Then you asked the man at the door who had 
been in the room,” said Peter, confidently. 

“No. I just said, ‘Mr. Curtis been down again, 
James?’ he said ‘Yes.’ Then I asked if he knew 
where Curt had gone and he said, ‘Up to his room, sir, 
I think.’ I asked if he had allowed any one else to go 
inside and he said he hadn’t. I impressed it on him 
that he mustn’t let any one in and—I guess that’s all.” 

“Not quite,” said Peter, noting the hesitancy of 
the last words. “There’s still something. Remem¬ 
ber, Matchem, I’m not on the police force. It was 
you that called me in. I’m here in your interest— 
and that of your family, of course. If I should stum¬ 
ble on the murderer, I’d feel it my duty to see that 
justice was done, I warn you of that. But aside from 
finding the actual criminal I—well, I can keep my 
mouth shut, or I wouldn’t be in this business, you can 
take it from me.” 

Tom studied the keen, honest, virile face before 


66 


THE KEY 


him for a considerable period. Then, with an air 
of shaking off a heavy load, he said: 

“I believe I can trust your discretion, Clancy, and 
I will admit there’s one other thing that worries me 
like hell. Maybe you’ll think it doesn’t amount to 
anything. It would cheer me up a devil of a lot if 
that was your opinion.” There was every ap¬ 
pearance of candour in the brown eyes which looked 
straight into Peter’s. There was even something of 
an appeal, or so it seemed to Peter, in the incongruous 
use of strong epithets in this man of quiet, studious 
habits. “You know what the doctor said about the 
time,” Matchem went on. “Between midnight and 
two in the morning-” 

Clancy nodded. 

“He seemed to be pretty sure—and he ought to 
know if any one can in a case like this.” Tom spoke 
slowly, weighing his words. “Curtis says that he 
left this room a few minutes after eleven. . . . 

Mrs. Fane . . . Mrs. Fane also said that she 

was standing by the door as the clock struck eleven— 
that she heard Curtis and Gilbert talking and didn’t 
go in. I know of my own knowledge that Curt 
came up to his room not very long after Mrs. Fane 
went downstairs.” 

“Yes,” said Peter. “Well? That would seem 
to fix the time for Curtis Fane, all right. That would 
seem to let him out—unless he went down again. 
Did he ? Do you know that he did ? Or what ? ” 

“They both said eleven o’clock,” said Tom, gravely, 


A LITTLE CAKE OF RED CLAY 67 

his brows drawn together, “both of them. Of 
course it can be explained, and I want you to tell me 
how. It’s a point I want cleared up, Clancy. Cur¬ 
tis says he came up shortly after eleven . . . 

and yet I happen to know that it was after twelve.” 

“You’re sure?” exclaimed Peter, leaning forward. 
He had been watching Matchem’s every movement. 
Not the flicker of an eyelash had escaped his observa¬ 
tion. The brown eyes were troubled, but Peter 
could detect no ambiguity in their expression. 

“Absolutely,” answered Tom, steadily. “I’d bet¬ 
ter tell you just what happened. I’d had some words 
with Gilbert at dinner. There’s one of the farmers, 
Duncan Cameron is his name. He has a daughter. 
Pretty little thing—and in trouble. Nobody knows, 
apparently, who’s responsible. Well, Gilbert hasn’t 
been satisfied with Cameron for some little time. 
Cameron’s old-fashioned and thinks it’s foolishness 
to rotate crops, and that sort of thing. He’s hard- 
headed and independent and lately he hasn’t carried 
out Gilbert’s instructions any too carefully. Then 
there’sthis matterof thegirl—Gilbert said hewouldn’t 
have that sort of thing going on about the place— 
that Cameron was unsatisfactory anyway, and that 
he was going to discharge him. I thought it seemed 
a pity—just now. Duncan isn’t young. It would 
be hard for him to get another job, so I stood up for 
him. Gilbert lost his temper—and I guess I did 
mine, too. Denise—Mrs. Fane—interposed in fa¬ 
vour of the girl—and that didn’t help matters. He 


68 


THE KEY 


said some”—Tom shut his teeth—“some pretty un¬ 
necessary things to her and left the table swearing 
that he’d discharge Cameron at once.” 

Tom spoke quietly, but there was tenseness in his 
tone and in his face. Peter thought, “This chap may 
be a scientific shark, with a lot of letters after his 
name, but he’s got red blood in him anyway, and a 
temper.” He said nothing aloud, however, and 
Tom went on: 

“I sat up rather late in my room last night, trying 
to read, but I couldn’t get Duncan and that poor 
girl of his out of my mind. I knew I wouldn’t sleep, 
either, and at last I decided to have it out with Gil¬ 
bert—to try again to make him reconsider. . . „ 

I went to his bedroom. He hadn’t come up yet 
Neither had Curt, for I looked into his room as I 
passed. I thought they ^were probably together in 
the tower. ... I knfew Curt was hard up and 
that perhaps he was trying to get what he needed 
from Gilbert, as usual. It was after eleven then, 
so I was sure I wouldn’t have to wait long as Gilbert 
generally goes to bed a little before midnight. I 
dropped into his big chair by the window and sat 
there looking at the moon.” 

“In the dark?” asked Peter. 

“I didn’t turn on the lights. There was a late 
moon, so the room wasn’t very dark. I waited 
what seemed to me a long time. Then I heard a 
door open and someone switched on a light in the 
upper hall. I saw Denise pass the door going toward 


A LITTLE CAKE OF RED CLAY 69 

the stairs. She had evidently been in bed or was 
ready for bed—some kind of a pink thing on, and her 
hair braided. ... I thought then it must be 
late and looked at my watch—luminous—could see 
the time perfectly—it was ten minutes of twelve. 
I found I was getting a bit sleepy by that time, but 
as Td waited so long I was more than ever deter¬ 
mined to have a talk with Gilbert before I went to 
bed. To keep my wits clear I got up and began 
walking about the room. Before very long I heard 
someone coming up the stairs. ... It was 
Curtis. ... I saw him pass the door. He 
went into his own room, which is next to Gilbert’s. 
I could hear him moving about a little while. Then 
I heard him running a bath. . . . Still I waited 

—for a long time, it seemed to me. I couldn’t 
imagine what was keeping Gilbert up so late. I 
walked the floor till I was tired—I even went into his 
bathroom and washed my face in cold water to keep 
me awake, but I found I was getting sleepier and 
sleepier and at last I gave up and went to bed.” 

“What time was that?” asked Peter. 

“A little after one. I could see the clock on the 
mantel plainly, as the moon struck it, and had been 
keeping watch of the time, so I know. ... I 
know, too, Clancy, that it was after twelve when 
Curt came upstairs, and I ask you, for God’s sake 
to tell me why he said it was only eleven.” 

Peter took a little time to consider his reply. When 
he spoke it was only to ask another question. 


THE KEY 


70 

“At what time did Mrs. Fane come up, did you 
notice ? She must have come up ahead of her brother- 
in-law.” 

Peter thought he saw Matchem start, though the 
movement was almost imperceptible. He replied at 
once. 

“Why—she must have gone up the back stairs, I 
suppose. I didn’t think of it. . - 

“She didn’t pass her husband’s door again on her 
way to her room, then ? ’ ? 

Tom said slowly: “No.” After a moment he 
added, “The little boy was ill in the night. She 
must have gone through the kitchen to get some¬ 
thing for him—hot water, perhaps. f The servants 
were all in bed and Stuart’s nurse was discharged 
yesterday. . . . Yes, that must have been it.” 

“Sure to have been,” agreed Peter, readily. 

Closely watching Matchem’s face, he felt con¬ 
fident that there was something new there. A new 
and hitherto unrecognized danger, causing increased 
anxiety. Peter’s easy acquiescence seemed to relax 
the tension. He thought Matchem breathed more 
freely when, dismissing the subject, he went on: 
“Well, Mr. Matchem, the whole thing’s a puzzle 
to me, I’ve got to admit it, and I can’t possibly hope 
to help you offhand. If you can think of a way to 
fix it so I can stay on the ground a few days-” 

“I’ve been thinking of that,” interrupted Tom, 
hesitatingly. He appeared a little uncertain, as if 
arguing some question within himself. He leaned 


A LITTLE CAKE OF RED CLAY 71 

his chin on his hand and glanced sidewise at Peter, 
meditatively. Peter waited, alert, confident. At 
length Matchem appeared to make up his mind. 

“There’s so much at stake,” he said, anxiously, 
“and I know you’re straight, Clancy. I know 
you won’t make false deductions as these damn 
fool detectives might. A mistake now might im¬ 
plicate some perfectly innocent person. It’s im¬ 
perative that you stay on. I feel that, and I think 
it can be arranged. You see, it’s this way: I know— 
in fact, we all know—that Gilbert has bought a great 
many manuscripts and rare books lately at auction. 
They’ve never been properly valued, and if Mr. 
Fletcher Kenyon could be prevailed upon to stay and 
do it now, it would save trouble later on when the 
estate is settled.” 

“I get you,” said Clancy, quickly. “Do you 
think you can put it across?” 

“I’m sure of it. I’ll explain to Mrs. Fane-” 

“That Mr. Fletcher Kenyon will be very willing to 
oblige,” supplied Peter. “Yes. Do that, and don’t 
let any one know what my profession is. The 
fewer that know it, the better. Most people are 
bum actors and we can’t afford to take chances. 
Get that?” 

Tom nodded, rose, crossed the room, and said a few 
words to the man at the door. He returned im¬ 
mediately. 

“I’ve just told them to take your bag up to your 
room. I’ll explain to Curtis and Denise later. 


THE KEY 


72 

You’ll find it will be all right. This is a big house and 
one more person in it won’t attract much attention.” 

“ And you can be sure of my keeping out of the lime¬ 
light,” grinned Peter. “Now, if you don’t mind, 
I’d like to see where they’ve put me and get the 
general lay of the house.” 

Tom agreed at once and together they crossed the 
great silent room. At the door, Peter paused to 
suggest that the lock should be repaired at the earliest 
possible moment. Tom answered that it had al¬ 
ready been arranged for, and that the carpenter and 
locksmith would have it in order before night. 

“You will have the key?” asked Peter, eagerly. 

“Yes. It is Mrs. Fane’s wish.” 

“Good,” said Peter. “That will simplify things 
a lot.” 

They spoke no more on the way through the lower 
hall and up the stairs. As they reached the top, 
Peter touched Matchem’s arm and pointed to the 
first door which was on his left, interrogating with 
raised eyebrows. 

“Gilbert’s sitting room,” Tom replied to the un¬ 
spoken question. They turned a corner of the hall 
and he continued to enumerate, answering the query 
in Peter’s eyes. “This is Gilbert’s bedroom. The 
next door is Curt’s. All these rooms on the right 
are Mrs. Fane’s and Stuart’s.” He led the way down 
the long hall and opened the fourth door on the left. 

“I had them put you- Ah, Maggie,” he broke 

off, as the open door disclosed a trim housemaid 


A LITTLE CAKE OF RED CLAY 73 

standing in the middle of the room. ''What’s the 
trouble? You look-” 

“ I can’t think what’s become of the down comforter 
what belongs in this room, sir,” said the housemaid 
in a perturbed voice. "I know I had the room all in 
order yesterday. The silk puff as matches the cur¬ 
tains was on the foot of the bed, and it ain’t there no 
more. I don’t know what the madam’ll say-” 

“Oh, don’t worry Maggie. Get another. Any 
time before night will do. Mr. Kenyon wants his 
room to himself now.” 

The maid, after another puzzled glance around 
the room, went out. Tom took himself off almost 
immediately thereafter—for the purpose, so he told 
Clancy, of explaining the reason for Mr. Fletcher 
Kenyon’s continued presence. 

“You’ll find me in the tower when you come 
down,” he said, as he closed the door. 

Left to himself, Peter stood still in the middle of 
the room, getting his bearings, both physical and 
mental. 

“That,” he said to himself, pointing to the wall 
at his left, “belongs to Mr. Curtis Fane, and that 

door-” He stepped softly over and tried it with 

exceeding caution. “Locked.” He raised his eye¬ 
brows. “Not that it matters. I can pick it in the 
dark, if I need to. Now was it by accident that 
Mr. Thomas Matchem put me in this room ? Hardly. 
. . . He knows a thing or two, that boy. . . . 

Or else. . . 


74 


THE KEY 


He crossed to one of the long windows and looked 
out. The rooms of the two brothers were in a line 
with his and he could not, of course, see into the 
windows. The great tower, at the other end of the 
house, extending as it did beyond the main wall, was, 
however, plainly visible. It rose sheer above the 
picturesque walls of an abandoned quarry, having 
been built on a huge bastion of rock which fell away 
on every side, making it as impregnable as an ancient 
fortress. 

“No chance for a second- or even a fourth-story 
man there,” thought Peter. “An inside job, all right. 
That’s a cinch. . . . And, according to our 

friend Curtis, no secret way to get into the tower 
room. . . . But can his testimony be depended 

on? . . . Matchem is of the same opinion—or 

appears to be. . . That would leave the 

door . . . locked on the inside. . . . The 

missing five hundred dollars could have been taken 
afterward—possibly as a blind. . . . But the 

murder was certainly committed during the night— 
you can’t get back of those returns, Pete. . . . 

You’ll just have to pass up the question of how, for 
the present, old bean, and stick to the problem of 
why. . . . Matchem didn’t love his cousin 

Gilbert any too well. I’m sure of that. He admits 
that they quarrelled at dinner. Knows I could get 
that out of the servants, maybe, and thinks he’d 
make character by telling me himself . . . per¬ 
haps. . . . His face told more than he knew 


A LITTLE CAKE OF RED CLAY 75 

when he spoke of Gilbert’s calling his wife down be¬ 
fore them all. . . . And how about the wife? 

H’m-m-m. . . . She went down and wasn’t 
seen to come upstairs again. Matchem let that out 
without thinking, apparently. . . . Yes . . . 

And she lied about the time. So did Curtis. . . . 

Wonder how much she and Curtis like each other? 
. . . Matchem thinks a lot of her, I’m certain of 

that—but how much? This isn’t the regular 
triangle, exactly. More like a quadrangle—a game 
of Mah Jongg, with a dead hand. Wonder if that 
dead hand will be able to pull a ‘no count’ game 
.... Good many tiles exposed. . . . And Mat¬ 
chem the only one who’s declared anything . . . 

sequences . . . and only one suit so far. . . . 

But he might be dogging at that. . . .” 

Still thinking hard, Peter automatically removed 
his coat and went into the private bath adjoining to 
wash up. He had given the servants no time to 
unpack his bag and he had to open it to get out his 
comb and brush. When he had completed his 
toilet he finished unpacking the few necessaries he 
had brought, and after placing some in the bureau 
drawers he went over to a closet to hang up the re¬ 
mainder. 

With a dressing gown over his arm and a suit of 
pajamas in his hand, he opened the door—and 
stopped short. 

“That’s funny,” he said, half aloud, and stooped 
to touch something which lay inside upon the floor. 


THE KEY 


76 

The closet was large but without a window. Peter 
saw an electric bulb hanging from the ceiling and 
switched on the light. Lying at his feet, untidily 
wadded and rumpled, was a handsome, silk-covered 
down comfortable. It was a peculiar bluish mauve 
and matched perfectly the background of the 
English chintz which hung at the windows. 

Peter regarded it thoughtfully for a moment and 
then drew it out and examined it. The quality was 
fine, the material fresh and new, but there was quite 
a good-sized smear of reddish dirt on one edge ground 
into the smooth silken surface. 

“The missing comfortable on the closet floor all 
mussed and dirty,” Peter thought. “ How could that 
have happened in a house like this? Funny. . . 

True to his instincts, he looked carefully all about 
the floor but found nothing more except a little cake 
of dried red clay. He picked it up gingerly, and 
taking it over to the window examined it under a 
magnifying glass. It was roughly flat on one side. 
On the other, which was curved, there could be seen, 
fairly plain under the glass, a slightly indented oval 
with what appeared to be some letters in the centre. 
On the edge of the little cake of clay there were a 
few faint crisscrosses. 

“Came out of the hollow of a rubber-soled shoe,” 
Peter decided, promptly. “Sneaker, and new. . . . 
There was a storm in town yesterday afternoon be¬ 
tween four and six o’clock . . . not local 

. . . Must have rained here about that time. . . . 


A LITTLE CAKE OF RED CLAY 77 

The soil around here is red clay. . . . But the 

roads are all paved—and the driveway is crushed 
blue stone. . . . Somebody was walking—off 

the road—in cheap shoes. . . . Not a servant, 

obviously. They don’t wear sneakers in a house as 
classy as this.” 

He put the dried earth carefully away in his 
collar-button box which he emptied for the purpose. 
“May not mean a thing,” he thought, “but it is 
funny, damned funny. I can’t make it out.” 

He hung up his night things and was starting to 
close the closet door when he paused and whistled 
softly. 

The key of the closet was on the inside of the door. 


CHAPTER IX 
A Crumpled Paper 


LITTLE later, when Mr. Fletcher Kenyon, 



with bent head and shuffling steps, passed down 
the great staircase and across the stone-paved hall, 
he found two men at work repairing the lock on the 
dark oak door of the tower room, the faithful James 
still in charge. He hesitated as his quick ear caught 
the murmur of voices within the room. 

“May I go in?” he asked of the valet, with a slight, 
deprecatory motion of his hands. “I don’t want to 
intrude, but Mr. Matchem told me to come here, that 
he would be-” 

“Mr. Matchem’s inside, sir,” answered James. 
“He’s only paying the servants’ wages, and if he 
said you were to meet him here, I’m sure there’s no 


reason- 


He motioned the two workmen out of the way and 
himself stepped inside the door. “Mr. Kenyon, 
sir,” he announced, and drew back to let Peter pass 
him. 

Even as he crossed the threshold, the swift eye of 
the detective noted that the purple hangings had 
been drawn across the entire right side of the room, 




A CRUMPLED PAPER 


79 

completely shutting off the immediate scene of the 
tragedy. At his left, a large group of servants stood 
along the wall in line, facing Thomas Matchem, who 
sat at a table in a far corner of the room. Neat 
piles of pay envelopes lay before him. He arose at 
sight of Peter, and came quickly across to him. 

“Do you mind if I finish this?” he asked in a low 
tone. “They’re used to receiving their money here 
and on the first of the month, and I thought it would 
avoid trouble-” 

“Couldn’t be better,” answered Peter. “Wanted 
to give them the once over, anyway. Call out their 
names so that I can hear. And, by the way—are 
they all here?” 

Tom nodded. 

“Tell them not to go till you’ve finished. You 
have a few words to say. See? I’ll write out some 
questions for you to ask them. I’ll call you over in 
a minute or two.” 

He said no more, but with a quaint bow he shuffled 
over to the table by the fireplace and apparently 
became engrossed in his work. 

Tom spoke a few quiet words to the assembled 
servants and went on with the business of their 
wages, speaking each name distinctly as he held up 
envelope after envelope. 

The faces of the men and women might have been 
a study to any one less absorbed than Mr. Fletcher 
Kenyon. They were old and young, intelligent and 
stupid, but on each there was some impress of the 



8 o 


THE KEY 


terrible occurrence that had so recently taken place 
in that high, dark room of mystery. There was one 
face that stood out from the rest, a man’s face, dark 
bronzed, and deeply lined. The eyes were haggard 
and were never still. The tall strong figure was 
slightly bent, the hands clutched rather than held, a 
heavy knotted stick. 

“ Duncan Cameron.” 

The figure started slowly forward at Matchem’s 
word, and the swiftly moving glance came to rest 
an instant on Tom’s face. The kindly expression, 
the encouragement in it, seemed to lift something 
from the man’s consciousness. He straightened 
and his step was firmer as he passed back to his 
place. 

The pile of envelopes on Tom’s table had dimin¬ 
ished to one or two when the proceedings were in¬ 
terrupted by a low drawling voice from the table by 
the fireplace. 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Matchem,” it said. “I 
hate to bother you, but there’s something here I 
don’t quite understand. If you could spare a 
moment or two. . . .” 

Tom rose hurriedly and crossed to the speaker. 
He looked intently for a moment at some notes that 
were placed before him, spoke a few words to the man 
sitting at the table, absently crumpled the notes 
in his hand, and returning to his place completed 
his task. 

When he had finished, still with an absent air, he 


A CRUMPLED PAPER 81 

smoothed out a small piece of paper and kept it 
partly under his hand as he spoke: 

“I want to say, while you’dTall together,” he said, 
addressing the servants, “that Mrs. Fane wishes me 
to express to you her satisfaction with your services, 
and to state that there will be no change for the 
present. Ample notice will be given in case it is 
decided to close this house, so none of you need feel 
at all worried as to the future. In the meantime, 
there are a few questions I’d like to put to you, as I 
am not sure which one of you might know something 
that it is necessary to find out.” 

There was a slight uneasy stirring but no one 
spoke, and Matchem went on: 

“What I want to find out is just this: Do any of 
you know of any strange person who was admitted to 
the house, on whatever pretext, after four o’clock 
yesterday afternoon or evening?” 

Several spoke at once, evidently eager to be of 
service. It appeared that quite a number of persons 
had been admitted, but when the testimony concern¬ 
ing them was all in, it was found that they were all 
tradesmen and the like, and none of them strangers 
in the sense in which Tom had used the word. 

“Unless, maybe, the man I took upstairs to fix the 
plumbing in one of the bathrooms,” suddenly ex¬ 
claimed an exceedingly young and bashful footman. 
“He said he was from Tunbridge’s in Morrisville, 
but I’d never seen him before, myself.” 

Tom looked up quickly from the crumpled paper 


82 


THE KEY 


which Mr. Fletcher Kenyon had passed to him. 
Was this the answer to the first, and to him, puzzling 
question which was hastily traced upon it? If so, 
he must ask the equally puzzling ones which followed: 

“H’m-m. Perhaps this might be the man I want 
to find,” said Tom, slowly. “What did he look like, 
Henry, do you remember?” 

“He—he looked just like a regular plumber,” 
said Henry, diffidently. “Had his tools in a bag. 
And a dirty face, what you could see of it, for the 
hair that was growing upon it. A thick dark mous¬ 
tache he had, and a beard.” The boy paused a 
minute to consider and added: “He was thin, I think, 
and kinda short—or maybe he wasn’t, only he looked 
that way to me.” 

“Did he have on sneakers—new ones?” This 
was, to Tom, the most curious question on the crum¬ 
pled paper, and he asked it in a rather uncertain tone, 
but the footman brightened at once. 

“Yes, sir. Sure he did,” he answered, confidently. 
“I noticed ’em because they was the only clean thing 
about him.” 

Tom thought, “What in the world put Clancy on 
to this ?” and in bewilderment and wonder he asked 
the next question: 

“Did you or any one stay with him while he was 
at work, Henry? Did you see him go away?” 

“No, sir,” doubtfully. “At least I didn’t see him 
go. But of course he did as soon as he’d finished. 
What would he be waiting for ? And him a plumber.” 


A CRUMPLED PAPER 


83 

“But surely, Henry, you know better than to leave 
a strange workman alone in a house like this.” Tom 
spoke severely. 

The boy blushed and stammered. 

“But Mr. Fane was right there, in the next room, 
Mr. Matchem. It was his bathroom and James 
Haggerty was there, too, when I come out. He had 
just-” 

With a quick lift of his hand Tom checked fthe 
boy and turned to the valet, who appeared a trifle 
confused, though he spoke before Matchem had 
time to question him. 

“I remember now, sir, that there was a workman 
of some sort in the bathroom, but I didn’t see him. 
I was only in the room for a few minutes.” 

“But it was you that told me I needn’t wait,” 
Henry interposed. “Don’t you remember, Mr. 
Haggerty? I wouldn’t have gone away, of course, if 
I hadn’t had me orders.” 

“I don’t seem to recall telling you anything,” said 
the valet, thoughtfully, “but it may be so, Henry. 
So much has happened to drive it clean out of my 
mind, but it may be that you’re right- 

“Well, anyway, Mr. Matchem, I had me instruc¬ 
tions,” said the boy, defensively. “Mr. Fane’ll 
remember, you can ask him if you like.” 

“Ask him?” said Tom quickly. “Ask Mr. Fane? 
Then it wasn’t-” 

“It was Mr. Curtis Fane, sir. One of the faucets 
in his bathroom was out of order, or the shower. I 


THE KEY 


84 

don’t rightly know which it was. But you can ask 
Mr. Curtis, and he’ll tell you. I was told not to 
wait.” 

Tom cast a quick, sidelong look at the red head 
which was bent above a magnificently illuminated 
page. He saw it nod almost imperceptibly. The 
last question on the crumpled paper was answered. 

A few words of dismissal from Tom, and the 
servants filed out of the room. Only one lingered— 
the tall dark man with the restless eyes. 

Clancy, his sharp eyes alert under a sheltering 
hand, watched the face of the farmer as he spoke to 
Matchem, and heard Cameron say: 

“Then I’m not to go, sir, after all?” The man 
spoke with a slight Scotch accent. 

The tone was sombre, but tinged with hope. 
Matchem’s face expressed some degree of surprise. 

“No, Duncan, no,” he answered, decidedly, and 
added, “What made you think you were to go?” 

“I had a ’phone message from Mr. Fane last 
night, sir,” said the man, frowning heavily. “It 
was just before I went to bed. He said 
he said I was to get two months’ pay to-day, and was 
to leave immediate. ... It took me off my feet 
as you might say, Mr. Matchem, that sudden it 
was.” While he spoke he was crushing his old hat 
between great hairy brown hands. “You know—it 
seems everybody knows . . . my daughter 

. . . she’s got no mother . . . but it was my 
best by her I did . . . and now . . 


A CRUMPLED PAPER 


85 

Tom rose and laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. 

“Mrs. Fane will look out for your poor girl, Dun¬ 
can, and help her all she can. You needn’t be afraid 
of having to leave the farm. It’s better for her to 
stay and face what’s come to her. ... If you 
think”—there was hesitancy of innate kindness and 
consideration in Matchem’s tone—“if you know— 
the man—if you think anything can be done to in¬ 
fluence him to-” 

“No! By God, no!” The passionate voice rang 
out in the stillness of the room. “ He let shame come 
to my girl—the hound! Do you think I’d have her 
tied for life to a man that . . . even if . . 

He stopped suddenly, checking his violent speech 
with an effort which seemed to wrench his whole 
being. The brim of his soft hat tore in his hands. 
He looked at it stupidly for a moment, pressed his 
clenched fist against his eyes, swayed a little on his 
feet, and after a pause, in an altered tone, added, 
“I’m grateful to you, Mr. Matchem—and to Mrs. 
Fane. I wish you’d tell her so.” And without 
another word he walked slowly from the room. 

Tom’s eyes followed him until he disappeared. 
Then he turned swiftly to Clancy, who had half 
risen from his chair. The detective, with one hand, 
motioned toward the door, with the other he made 
the gesture of a hand turning a key. Tom under¬ 
stood, and crossed the room with long even strides. 

The workmen, who had gone some little time be¬ 
fore, had left the key on the inside of the now re- 



86 


THE KEY 


paired door. Tom turned it quietly and again 
crossed the room to Peter’s table. 

“Who would know what Cameron’s movements 
were after he got the ’phone message from Mr. Fane 
last night?” asked Peter, without giving Tom time to 
speak. “His daughter, probably. Anybody else?” 

Tom frowned, eyed Clancy anxiously, and shook 
his head. “They live alone in a small house nearly 
a mile from here,” he said, “down at the edge of the 
woods on the main road. But, Clancy, you can’t 
suspect-” 

“I suspect everybody and everything, Matchem,” 
the detective answered, crisply. “Only way to do in a 
mixed-up case like this. But I’m not going off half- 
cocked, so make your mind easy. . . . One 

question more before we leave the matter of Duncan 
Cameron and his daughter: Have you any idea, any 
least suspicion, as to the man in the case?” 

Tom’s large brown eyes expressed nothing but 
the most perfect candour as he shook his head again 
in positive negation. 

“Well,” said Peter, drawing a long breath, “then 
that’s that.” 

Tom started to speak, but Peter checked him with 
a gesture. 

“ I know you want to ask me all sorts of questions,” 
he said, rapidly, “and it’s natural, too. But I 
haven’t anything to tell you now, and it’s I that have 
to do the questioning act. It’s up to me to be fast 
on my feet if I’m to get away with things before any 


A CRUMPLED PAPER 


87 

one suspects Mr. Fletcher Kenyon. I’ve got you 
going about the plumber with the new sneakers, 
haven’t I?” There was almost a boyish gleam of 
amused triumph in the keen blue eyes. “I’11 tell 
you about him when the time comes. Just now 
there’s something you can tell me, I hope. Do you 
remember whether or not you closed the door of Mr. 
Gilbert Fane’s room when you left it last night? 
You found it open, I think you said.” 

Tom nodded, slightly bewildered. The detective’s 
swift transit from one series of events to another was 
disconcerting to his methodical mind. 

“And you closed it when you went to bed?” in¬ 
sisted Peter. 

“Yes,” slowly. “Yes, I am sure I did. The wind 
was coming up and I thought it might bang and 
disturb—Mrs. Fane.” Peter noticed, as always, 
a slight pause, almost imperceptible, before the men¬ 
tion of her name. 

“And also not to disturb Mrs. Fane, you went 
very quietly past her doors and down the hall to your 
room,” said Clancy, in an even tone. “You had on 
slippers, perhaps, and made little or no noise.” 

Tom, evidently at a loss, replied, “Yes,” and said 
no more. 

“And that was after one o’clock,” said Peter, 
thoughtfully, glancing, instinctively, at the tall clock 
which stood in the corner. 

His eyes were arrested by the movement of the 
finely wrought hands across the broad silver face. 


88 


THE KEY 


“Who started the clock?” he asked, turning his 
head swiftly in Matchem’s direction. “Do you 
know who started the clock?” 

“Why, I did,” Tom replied, readily. “Was there 
any reason-” 

“No,” Peter answered the unfinished question. 
“A dead clock always gives me the blues. Guess 
it did you, too. No, there’s no reason for keeping it 
at eleven minutes past one. Eleven minutes past 
one-” he repeated, slowly. 

There was a low knock at the door. At a nod 
from Clancy, Tom crossed the room, opened it, and 
disclosed the white old face of James Haggerty. 

“You asked me to tell you when dinner was 
served, sir,” he said with a slight bow, and a quick, 
almost furtive glance all about the dimly lighted 
room. 

Tom thanked him, but the old man lingered a 
moment. At length with a shake of his white head 
he turned slowly away muttering to himself: 

“A black shadow . . . the shadow of death 

. . . and only me to see it . . the only 

person in this house that loved him . . . only 

me ... to see. . . .” 



CHAPTER X 
The Search 


DETER CLANCY was very quiet and watchful 
A at dinner that night, watchful of himself as 
well as every one else in the room. He played the 
role of Fletcher Kenyon well, for he had a quick 
Irish wit, with plenty of imagination and an unusual 
ability for throwing himself into a part. He had had 
a good education, and although in moments of excite¬ 
ment he dropped into his native New York vernac¬ 
ular, in this instance he said nothing to betray him¬ 
self. 

Fortunately for him, Thomas Matchem was the 
only person at the table who knew any of the techni¬ 
cal details of the subject on which he was supposed 
to be an expert, and Matchem, for obvious reasons, 
asked no leading questions. 

Curtis Fane was courteous enough, but indifferent 
and preoccupied. In an absent-minded, uninterested 
manner, he expressed his appreciation of Mr. Kenyon’s 
kindness in remaining under the present sad condi¬ 
tions, to which Mrs. Fane added a murmur of thanks. 
Aside from this, she spoke little during the long, 
formally served meal, and ate practically nothing. 

89 


90 


THE KEY 


Peter watched her covertly as she sat at the head 
of the table. A beautiful woman, he thought her; 
perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. 
And yet there was something strange about her. 
He couldn’t tell exactly what it was. Her odd 
dress perhaps, black, which was appropriate, in the 
circumstances—but why the queer cut of it ? Tightly 
it clung to her slim figure; long, smooth sleeves 
covered her arms and almost covered her exquisite 
slender hands. A straight high collar rose about the 
throat. The dress from chin to hem was buttoned 
close, straight down the front, like a priest’s cassock. 
But there was nothing conventual about the face 
which lifted itself above the severe garment—noth¬ 
ing save, perhaps, its fine clear pallor. The lips 
were scarlet, full, and curved, as if drawn with a 
free, flexible brush (though Peter, wise to many 
things, made sure that there was no paint on them). 
The nose was small and straight, and the eyes— 
perhaps the eyes were the keynote of the whole face. 
It was impossible to tell whether they were blue or 
green or gray, so thick were the dark lashes that 
shadowed them. Beneath fine-drawn black brows 
they looked out with an expression which Peter could 
not fathom. Suffering was there, whether habitual 
or not it was impossible to say—and fire, pride, 
passion, a sense of endurance, a something . . . 

noble, yes, noble—and yet. . . . 

Peter’s veiled glance travelled from her face to 
that of Curtis Fane. It was half turned, in answer 


THE SEARCH 


9i 

to some question Matchem had just asked, and Peter 
had an opportunity for careful observation. Expert 
physiognomist that he was, there was little difficulty 
in rating the external points. The handsome, 
roving dark eyes and the full, sensuous lips denoted 
the pleasure-loving, careless male; the somewhat 
narrow brow and oblong shape of the head, under its 
thick mass of smoothly brushed hair, gave little 
indication of unnecessary brain power. And yet 
there was the hint of a sort of devil-may-care humour 
in the face, and a certain degree of sensitiveness in 
the full modelling of the mouth. Altogether a hand¬ 
some sort of chap, Peter decided, and one who could 
scarcely fail in his relation with women—of a certain 
type, at least. 

But was Denise Fane of this type? And if not, 
why had she lied about the time when she saw this 
man with his brother on the fatal night just gone? 
The man was tall enough to have reached the dagger; 
strong enough to have driven it home. But the 
same statement applied to Matchem, and for the 
matter of that, to Duncan Cameron, and several of 
the servants, as Peter had noted. Even the faithful 
James Haggerty was physically capable of having 
committed the crime. From this standpoint, there 
were many to choose from, but from another point of 
view, who was there? Someone had made his escape 
from the tower room, and left a locked door behind 
him—‘but who ? And how had he been able to leave 
the key on the inside of the lock? 


THE KEY 


92 

This last question was uppermost in Peter’s mind 
when, at length, they all rose from the table. It was 
still uppermost as, with slow, shambling gait he 
followed Thomas Matchem through the softly lighted 
hall and into the tower. When the door was safely 
closed and locked, he spoke his thought, tapping 
Matchem lightly on the breast to emphasize his words. 

“ There’s one thing we’ve got to determine before 
we can go any further, Matchem,” he said. “Your 
cousin to the contrary notwithstanding, it’s dis¬ 
tinctly on the cards that there ought to be some way, 
besides the door, to get into this room—and out of it, 
by the same token. If there is, we’ve got to find it, 
see? It’s up to us. Now, listen. We’ll take the 
floor first. Help me roll back these rugs.” 

Swiftly Peter slipped off his coat. Tom followed 
his example and together they rolled up the rugs, 
leaving bare the polished floor. 

At Peter’s request, Matchem switched on all the 
remaining lights in the great room. There were 
many of them, all shaded from above, leaving the 
top of the tower in mysterious and picturesque 
obscurity. Marvellously stimulating to an imagina¬ 
tion like Peter’s was this strange, individual, char¬ 
acteristic room. Its silence and vastness were op¬ 
pressive, the wealth included within its walls weighed 
on the mind; the murderous array of arms and the 
murderous deed which had been committed there 
weighed on the soul. Broadswords and rapiers, 
poniards, stilettos, daggers, took on special, immi- 


THE SEARCH 


93 

nent, sinister meaning as the light flashed and shivered 
along their blades. It was with difficulty that Peter 
withdrew his mind from them to concentrate on the 
work in hand. 

The brilliant light, which had given a new aspect 
to the room, fell full and clear upon the lower walls 
and the floor. The latter now claimed Peter’s entire 
attention. Upon his knees he moved, carefully ex¬ 
amining its polished surface. 

There was not the least sign of a break in the finely 
joined parquetry, yet Peter was not satisfied until 
he had moved every piece of furniture that he could 
not see under and had sounded every foot of the wide 
floor. At last he straightened, with a long sigh, and 
shook his head. 

“No good,” he said, succinctly. “We’ll have to 
tackle the walls.” 

He looked swiftly about him and made his diagno¬ 
sis. 

“If we find anything, it’ll be a place that can be 
reached somehow with what’s in the room now,” 
he said, “so we won’t need a ladder or anything. 
Who ever was in here didn’t have one, or it would 
be here still. That’s a cinch. Now,” he pointed in 
the direction of the purple hanging, “do you notice 
anything peculiar about that chair over there against 
the wall?” 

“It’s very old Celtic. Gilbert got it from an 
ancient church in Ireland,” replied Tom, frankly 
puzzled, “but I don’t suppose-” 



THE KEY 


94 

“That Em interested on that account? Though 
I ought to be, with my mother and father both born 
in the Emerald Isle,” grinned Peter. “No, that 
isn’t it. What I could care about is the shape and 
size of it. Look—see how high it is—and the heavy 
arms it has—and the way the ends of that cross thing 
in the back stick out beyond the circle. And Ell 
bet-” 

Like a boy he ran across the room, caught hold 
of the arms of the great chair, and pulled. 

Smoothly it rolled forward on silent casters. Peter 
turned a triumphant face toward Matchem. 

“What better ladder do we want than this?” he 
asked. “Now watch me get busy.” 

He kicked off his shoes, lightly sprang to the chair 
seat, and then stepped to one of the arms. The 
heavy chair remained solidly upon the floor. 

“Divil a lurch out of it,” said Peter, cheerfully. 
“And I figure this is the height, though there may 
be a spring or something you have to reach by getting 
up on the back of it. Now roll me around slowly— 
Ell give the word.” 

Tom’s face plainly indicated his excitement as he 
watched Peter’s every movement while pushing the 
chair slowly along the wall as Peter directed. Thus 
they made the circuit of five sides of the octagonal 
floor and came again to the opposite end of the 
purple hanging. 

“Nothing doing so far, Ell bet my last dollar,” said 
Peter, disgustedly. “And I don’t believe anything 


THE SEARCH 


95 

short of an eruption of Vesuvius would move that 
steel drawer outfit, back there, but we'd better risk 
an eye on it. Shove her along." 

Still keeping his place on the broad chair arm, he 
pushed the curtain far enough away from the wall 
to allow them to enter the space behind it. 

It would have been an odd sight had there been 
any one to see: the tall, supple figure of the detective 
now bending, now stretching upward, from his perch 
on the great carved chair; the dishevelled head of his 
companion, now raised and now lowered, as he 
watched, or slowly propelled the chair forward. 

Two of the remaining sides of the room were trav¬ 
ersed without result. The steel drawers fitted to a 
nicety. There was not the smallest pin-hole in their 
smooth bronzed frames, no microscopic break in the 
heavy slanting moulding immediately above them, 
nor in the wall which rose behind, so far as Peter 
could see. 

The remaining side of the room was directly be¬ 
hind the long table and the chair where the dead 
body of Gilbert Fane had been found. There was 
just room to slide the big church chair past the pieces 
of furniture without moving them, and this was 
done, perhaps with some inward shrinking on the 
part of Thomas Matchem, but with none at all on 
that of Peter Clancy, whose whole soul was centred 
on his search. 

Back to the purple curtain again. Peter bit his 
lip and shook his head, looking down at Matchem. 


THE KEY 


96 

“If there’s anything that Eve missed, I’m a son 
of a gun, and that’s what I hope,” he said, despond¬ 
ently. “By rights we should have found a crack, or 
a place that sounded hollow, or a button, or spring, 
or something—I guess I’ll have to rest a minute be¬ 
fore I play acrobat on the top of the chair back. Not 
that I think, now, it’s going to be of much use. 
We’ve got to have a place big enough for a man to 
get through, and nobody can join up any kind of a 
door so that a magnifying glass like this can’t see 
the crack. And there isn’t a darned thing—not a 
darned thing.” 

He was about to descend from his perch when a 
thought struck him. 

“Hold on,” he said. “Just roll me back to the 
place where that dagger used to hang, will you, 
Matchem ? Didn’t think to look for anything except 
that secret entrance which apparently isn’t there.— 

So. That’s right. Now, wait a minute-” He 

was talking more to himself than to Tom. “Yes, a 
shred of leather still hanging from the nail. Must 
have been pretty rotten to tear like that. . . . 

And here’s a scratch on the moulding just below. 
. . . Might have been made by the point of the 

dagger when the devil, whoever he was, jumped 
down with it in his hand.” 

“But I don’t quite see that,” interposed Tom, 
frowning and squinting his eyes at the place where the 
poniard had been. “It hung hilt down, like the one 
on the opposite side of the shield, see? The hilts 



THE SEARCH 


97 


are so heavy they hang better that way. . . . 

Now if you were to grab that one and jump down, 
the point would be up, wouldn’t it? And if you 
struck anything it would be with the hilt-” 

“I’ll say you’ve got quite an eye for detail,” said 
Peter, admiringly, leaving his perch and joining 
Matchem on the floor. “What you say is reason¬ 
able, all right. Let’s take a look.” 

With a sangfroid of which Tom would never have 
been capable, Peter picked up the gruesome weapon, 
which had been laid by itself on a clean piece of fools¬ 
cap upon the bloodstained table. He had no 
hesitation about touching it, for almost the first 
thing he had done that afternoon was to test the 
handle for finger marks, and his knowledge that no 
clue was to be discovered there antedated Small’s 
by an hour or more. 

“This pointed blob on the top is pretty sharp, 
Matchem,” he said after testing it with his thumb. 
“Perhaps you’re right, and it was the hilt and not 
the point that made the scratch I found. Or possi¬ 
bly it wasn’t the dagger at all. Who knows? Not 
that it makes much difference.” He dropped into 
the huge armchair, wearily. “Gee, I’ve had a day 
of it, I’ll tell the world,” he said. “Let’s rest a 
minute before we attack again,” and he leaned back, 
relaxed in every muscle. 

There was only one other chair in the vicinity, and 
Tom could not bring himself to be seated in that in 
which he had last seen the form of his murdered 


THE KEY 


98 

cousin. He therefore leaned against the smooth 
steel wall and regarded Peter silently, though there 
were many questions he would have liked to ask. 

“We haven’t had much chance to talk, have we?” 
said Peter after a moment. “And there’s a whole 
heap of things I’ve got to know. Suppose w^e get 
started on some of ’em, eh, what? Let’s begin with 
the family here, if you don’t mind. Just general 
lines until I get the hang of things, see? Anything 
you know about Mr. Gilbert Fane’s past that might 

throw a light on an—enemy—perhaps-” A 

rising inflection of the last words made of them a 
possible question. 

Tom replied briefly and to the point. Gilbert 
hadn’t an enemy in the world so far as he knew—“At 

least no one who hated him sufficiently to-” 

Tom hesitated. 

“Nor many friends, had he?” asked Peter, men¬ 
tally reverting to the little side hints he had received 
that day, and to the impression which remained with 
him of the cold, still face of Gilbert Fane as he had 
seen it last. 

“Not many, I should say,” Tom admitted. “He 
was an odd sort of man, my cousin Gilbert. Many 
hobbies, many peculiarities. Difficult person to 
understand—at least I found him so. My fault, 
perhaps.” 

“He was decent to you?” asked Peter, watchfully 
on the alert. 

“Yes—on the whole.” Matchem spoke slowly. 


THE SEARCH 


99 

“He had a good many pet aversions, but fortunately 
I wasn’t one of them.” 

“Pet aversions,” Peter repeated. “Aversions to 
whom?” 

Matchem glanced at Peter swiftly, and lowered 
his eyes. 

“I didn’t mean people, exactly,” he said, so slowly 
that Peter had time to wonder whether Matchem 
really did not mean “people”—some definite person 
in particular, perhaps. Tom went on rather hur¬ 
riedly: 

“I meant aversions to things. He had an un¬ 
reasoning horror of caterpillars, for instance. Almost 
fainted if one got on him. Equally so of mice and 
bats and even June bugs—anything that moves 
quickly and darts and buzzes. I haven’t any of 
these nervous reactions myself, but it runs in his 
side of the family. His father was like that, and 
Curtis is, too. You’ve no idea the exhibition they’ve 
made at times. Not cowards, ordinarily, under¬ 
stand, but if a bat got in the room, or a June bug 
flew around the light where one of them was read¬ 
ing-” 

Peter was distinctly under the impression that 
this unusually rapid flow of words on Matchem’s 
part was intended to cover a slip. Who was the pet 
aversion he had had in mind at the outset? Peter 
hazarded an interruption: 

“Your cousin may not have been a coward in 
ordinary circumstances,” he said, “but there’s no 



IOO 


THE KEY 


question of his being afraid, horribly afraid, at the 
moment he met his death. No one could have 
looked at his face afterward and had any doubt 
about that. He knew who was in the room with him, 
and hated and feared—whoever it was. He was 
struck from behind, but he’d already seen the person 
who got him.” 

Tom nodded in agreement, but did not speak. 
After a moment Peter went on: 

“It didn’t seem as if there’d been a struggle— 
except that he had his coat off.” 

“I don’t think that meant anything,” said Tom. 
“The whole house was very hot last night. He 
evidently had some work on hand and”—he mo¬ 
tioned to a chair at some little distance, where a din¬ 
ner coat still lay—“it looks to me as if he hadn’t 
been hurried when he took it off. See how neatly it’s 
folded and laid on the back of the chair.” 

Peter smiled approvingly. “You’d make a good 
detective with a little training, Matchem,” he said. 
“If a man pulled off his coat for a fight, he’d just 
drop it anywhere, probably. Not in a fancy duel, 
maybe, but this wasn’t any duel. There was only 
one weapon—just one.” 

Peter rose and stretched himself. “Well, I guess 
we’d better get to work again. The next lap is going 
to be slow, and I haven’t a lot of hope. But we’ll 
have to make sure we aren’t missing a trick. We’ll 
go back around the room in reverse. Climb up in 
the chair seat and give me a hand, will you?” 


THE SEARCH 


IOI 


Tom did as requested, while Peter mounted to the 
top of the great carved Celtic Cross of the chair-back. 
From this higher point of vantage he examined every 
inch of wall within reach, both men descending to 
the floor at intervals to push the big chair under an 
unexplored portion of the wall. The procedure was 
very tedious for Peter, owing not only to the difficulty 
of maintaining his balance, but to the fact that the 
lower portions of the display of arms and armour 
interrupted the plain wall spaces, and it was neces¬ 
sary to feel behind each piece to make sure that no 
hidden spring was concealed there. 

“Quite a little dust behind everything," Peter 
remarked, partly to himself, when they had circled 
more than half the room. “And no sign of its hav¬ 
ing been disturbed by anything bigger than these tiny 
bugs that are crawling over everything right here. 
My word, there's a disgusting lot of 'em." 

“Bugs, Clancy!" exclaimed Tom. “Can't be 
any bugs up there! Good lord, the housekeeper'd 

have a fit. You don't mean-" 

“Not!" said Peter, grinning. “These haven't 
any wings, either, that I can see, but they're much 
smaller, so make your mind easy." 

“Wonder what they can be," said Tom, his interest 
in entomology for the moment superseding all other 
considerations. “I've identified every insect in this 
vicinity, I think. Mind if I take a look at these? 

If you’ll lend me your glass-" 

Smiling at Matchem’s boyish enthusiasm, and 




102 


THE KEY 


glad of a moment’s rest, Peter relinquished his place, 
and Matchem took it, balancing himself with the 
ease of a cat. 

“Acari,” he pronounced, after a close scrutiny 
through Peter’s magnifying glass. “Genus Acarus. 
Nothing unusual about them except they have no 
business here. I’ll have to see about it in the morn¬ 
ing. Thanks awfully, old man. Thought it might 
be something interesting. Shall we go on?” 

As he resumed his search, Peter thought that Gil¬ 
bert Fane was not the only peculiar member of his 
family, not the only one with well-ridden hobbies. 
To be excited about a lot of little bugs when you 
were looking for a spring that might reveal a hidden 
entrance didn’t seem natural to Peter, but he could 
see no reason for a pretended interest and dismissed 
the matter from his mind. 

It was long after midnight when Peter descended 
from his perch for the last time. 

“I can’t make it out,” he said to Matchem, when 
they had restored the room to its former luxurious 
order. “There isn’t any way to get into this tower 
except by the door. I’m certain of it. There’s no 
secret entrance, no trapdoor, no spring, no movable 
panel, no nothin’! Nothing larger than a cat could 
get through those ventilators under the skylight, and 
a cat would have to have a trained aeroplane to get 
up that high. Those little narrow windows would 
hardly let your arm through even if it was possible to 
reach ’em from the outside.” 


THE SEARCH 


103 

He rumpled his red hair until it stood up like the 
top of a sheaf of wheat. “There’s no way but the 
door, Matchem,” he repeated. “Somehow or other, 
God only knows how—unless it was a spirit that 
killed your cousin—the murderer came through that 
door!” 


CHAPTER XI 

“You Never Can Tell” 

A ND you’re sure you feel quite well again, little 
son?” 

Denise Fane sat in the broad window of her morn¬ 
ing room, a slender dark lad of seven standing close 
beside her knees. Her hands were on his little 
shoulders and her eyes, filled with unfathomable 
tenderness, gazed into his. 

The morning sun streamed through the window 
and lit up the face of the little boy, while that of his 
mother remained in shadow. In spite of the differ¬ 
ence in age and sex, the two faces were startlingly 
alike. The stamp of race and breeding were on both. 
The boy had run true to type—his mother’s type. 
There was no suggestion of his father in features, 
colouring, or bearing. 

“I feel just purfleck, Mother dear. An’ I do so 
want to go for a ride on Blackbird. May I?” 

“Yes, indeed, son. It will be good for you, and 
it’s a lovely morning for a canter. Wish I could go 
with you, but-” 

“Oh, aren’t you coming, Mother dear?” The 
little voice was filled with disappointment. 

104 


“YOU NEVER CAN TELL” 


105 

**Not this morning, darling. Mother has too 
many things to attend to. Run along now, dearest, 
and when you come back-” 

The child leaned closer to her. There was some¬ 
thing unchildish in his face. 

“Mother dear, is it true,” he whispered with a 
quick glance over his shoulder, “is it true I won’t 
have to ride with him any more? You’re sure he 
isn’t coming back? Not ever?” 

“Hush, darling. No. Vou’ll never have to ride 
with him again. . . . That’s . . . over. 
. . .” The fateful finality, the relief in the 
tone, perhaps because of inherent racial sympathy 
between them, was somehow recognized by the 
little son. 

“You’re glad, Mother dear, aren’t you?” he said, 
softly. “You don’t look quite happy, but you must 
be glad.” 

Was she glad indeed? Denise thought to herself, 
when the little boy had disappeared with the groom 
who was to take him out on his pony. Was she a 
horrible, wicked woman to be so—no, not glad— 
that might come later, when the hideous act which 
had freed her could be in some measure forgotten. 
But the relief! Never again to be compelled to 
listen to her husband’s cold sarcasm, never again to 
have to bear, with calm unchanging front, his veiled 
taunts and ugly innuendos. Poor, she had been, 
frightfully poor in money, though brave and gallant 
and generous in spirit, when she had married him. 


io 6 


THE KEY 


If she had only known that her invalid mother would 
have lived so short a time. . . . And she had 

meant to make him happy—to be the sort of wife he 
wanted. . . . Her lineage was equal to his own 

and he must have admitted that to himself (though 
she was of Southern, he of Northern, blood), or he 
would never have married her. 

She had realized almost from the outset his 
abnormal, overweening family pride. . . . But 

that it should carry him to the point of hating his 
only son because he was so distinctly of another race, 
passed all comprehension. Latterly she had come 
to believe that it was an obsession, a mania—that 
and his aversion to herself. Erratic, unbalanced, 
he was constantly taking up new objects of pursuit, 
forming fresh aversions, and, with his violent temper, 
the latter had proved well-nigh unendurable, espec¬ 
ially during the last few weeks, when his frequent 
outbursts had seemed to reach almost to the point 
of insanity. 

And now, hideous, frightful as it was, it was over— 
done with. She was free. Free! 

And there was- 

A subdued, quick knock at the door broke into her 
hurried excited thoughts. 

“It’s only Tom, Denise,” a voice spoke outside 
the door. “Only Tom. May I come in?” 

Only Tom—quaint, quiet, self-forgetful Tom. 
Yes, he could—and did come in. 

“I’ve just been able to get Page and Blair on the 


“YOU NEVER CAN TELL 55 


107 

wire,” he said, as he sat down on a low chair beside 
her. “Mr. Page, fortunately, was in.” He paused 
a moment, then added, quietly, “They’ve drawn no 
will for him, Denise, and I know they’ve handled 
all his law business for him since I came here. It 
seems unlikely that any one else should have drawn 
one, but it is possible, of course—or he may have 
written one himself. We’ll have to make a thorough 
search. He would have kept it in the tower almost 
certainly. He’s always contended that it was safer 
than any bank. If you don’t mind, I think you 
should be present while the search is made. I can 
see that you’re anxious about it, but I don’t quite 

like to look for it by myself, and Curtis- Do 

you know why Curtis went into New York this 
morning, Denise? He said he’d be back to lunch, 

or soon after, but it seemed a little strange-” 

She looked at him with startled eyes. 

“What could have taken Curtis to town at a time 
like this?” she asked. “I hadn’t any idea he’d 

gone. Was there any reason-” 

“None that I know of,” answered Tom, slowly. 
“If you’d rather wait till Curt can be present—if 

going over the papers will be too hard for you-” 

“No, Tom, no.” The beautiful face was grave, 
almost stern. “We must find the will, if there is 
one. . . . And if not ... do you know 

what the law is, Tom? How it will affect—my little 
son?” 

“ I asked Mr. 'Page,” Tom answered at once. “ He 



io8 


THE KEY 


says that according to the laws of this state, in case 
of intestacy, the widow receives one third, the chil¬ 
dren, if any, two thirds of the estate.” 

She bowed her head and rose. 

“Em ready to go to the tower with you now,” she 
said, and laid her slender hand on his rough sleeve. 
“Tom . I . You’ve been very good 

to me, Tom, all these years. I haven’t said much— 
but you understand. . . . You always under¬ 

stand, Tom. I’ve never had your generosity and 
patience, and sometimes I think I’ve been very 
wicked . . . especially lately . . . the last 

week . . . Oh, Tom!” 

“I know, Denise, hush. Don’t talk about it.” 
He took her hand, and with a gesture that had some¬ 
thing in it of another age, raised it reverently to his 
lips. “You couldn’t be to blame for anything. 
You’ve had too much to bear. But it’s over now. 
Come.” 

Quietly and resolutely he drew her hand through 
his arm and together they passed through the hall 
and down the stairs. Tom knocked on the tower 
door. “Mr. Kenyon is in there,” he explained, “I 
thought it best to keep the door locked.” 

There was a momentary pause. Then the door 
opened and Mr. Fletcher Kenyon, with bent head 
and bowed back, stood on the threshold. He made a 
slight, awkward gesture of greeting when he saw 
Mrs. Fane, and stood aside to let her pass. 

“I’d better go. Yes?” he asked, addressing her. 


“YOU NEVER CAN TELL” 


109 

“ I’ll be in the way ? ” He peered at her mildly through 
his large tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses. “There’s 
much to be done, and I’m afraid I’ve not more than 
half finished. You’ll bear with me, I hope. And 
now, since I don’t wish to intrude, I’ll take myself 
off for the present.” And he took a slow step 
toward the hall. 

“Would we interrupt Mr. Kenyon, do you think, 
Tom?” asked Denise, considerately. “Is there any 
reason why he shouldn’t go on with the manuscripts? 
We’ll be making no noise, Mr. Kenyon. We’re 
only looking for some papers. If you would rather 
go on-” 

“It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Fane. Very kind, 
I’m sure. If you’re positive I won’t be in the 
way-” 

Tom had time to wonder again at Clancy’s adapta¬ 
bility, remembering his careless English when they 
two were alone. If he had not known the man’s real 
profession, he would himself have been deceived by 
the detective’s manner and address. Little as he 
liked the idea of keeping Denise, even momentarily, 
in the dark, he could not but admire the cleverness 
with which it was done. 

Fletcher Kenyon seemed to have forgotten their 
presence when he had resumed his old place at the 
table before the fireplace. The morning sun poured 
through the high glass roof, making a brilliant spot 
of his bent red head as he pored over the manu¬ 
scripts. Tom and Denise disappeared through the 


no 


THE KEY 


purple curtains on the far side of the room. Their 
low voices came back in an indistinguishable mur¬ 
mur. 

Peter listened to their movements for a short time. 
It seemed, by the sound, that Mrs. Fane had seated 
herself near the curtain on the right-hand side as 
Peter faced it, and that Matchem was occupied with 
something quite near her. After waiting to make 
sure of their location, Peter rose slowly, without a 
sound, and noiselessly drew nearer to the closed 
hangings. The murmur at once became distinguish¬ 
able sentences. 

“—Had to trust someone with the combination, I 
suppose 5 ’—it was Matchem speaking—“and I was 
the logical one, of course. It would have been 
awkward if I’d had to look him up every time I 
wanted any of the books and papers. 55 A slight 
pause. “There, you see. Pretty ingenious. This 
drawer looks just like all the rest but it is only a bot¬ 
tom and front, as you see. And inside is the dial 
that unlocks the drawer above. Watch. 55 Another 
pause. “Same key I used before—only one I have— 
unlocks this drawer after I 5 ve worked the combina¬ 
tion. And here are the keys to everything else. 55 

Mrs. Fane said something that Peter could not 
catch. Then there was a faint jingling of keys and 
Matchem said: 

“This bunch belongs to the coin section, and this 
to the stamp collection. The jewel section has a 
special combination of its own, but it 5 s no use looking 


“YOU NEVER CAN TELL” 


hi 


for papers in any of these places. I go over them all 
from time to time and there’s no possibility of its 
being there. If there is a will it will be somewhere 
in that section behind Gilbert’s table. All the cash 
and the papers, receipts, and so forth, relating to the 
estate are there, and Gilbert’s private papers. I’ve 
never, of course, looked into them, but I know where 
they are. I’ll bring them over to you here, on my 
desk, and you can look them over.” 

Peter dared listen no longer. He did not want 
Matchem to suspect that he was under surveillance, 
as was everything else in that strange household. 

“Until I know better where I’m at,” thought 
Peter, as with long, noiseless, feline steps he regained 
his old place at the table. “Looking for the will, 
eh? . . . Will? . . . Yes, of course. . . . 
A proper, executed will. . . . The paper that 

Fane was at work on when he was murdered—was it 
the draught of a will? Matchem says it looked like 
it. . . . Something to do with Curtis, he wants 

me to think, but how do I know that? I have only 
his word for it. . . And he obviously had as 

good a chance to take it as any one. . . . But it 
wouldn’t have been signed and witnessed. 

Could it? Could it, Peter? Why, of course—it 
might—might have been made any old time. . . . 

Fane might have been just looking at it for some 
reason. . . . Matchem implied that it was only 

a draught and incomplete. ... In which case, 
why should any one want to steal it . . . under 


112 


THE KEY 


such conditions? . . . Looks queer, I’ll tell the 

world. . . . And it’s Matchem that knows how 

to get at all the valuables in the place, once he gets 
inside the big door over there. H’m-m-m. Has a 
key that lets him into everything else, and the com¬ 
bination—and all the other keys. . . . 

Peter leaned his head on his hands, and his eyes 
saw nothing of the beautiful painted page before him. 
“He seems an innocent, kind old scientific bean. 
. . . Almost like to have him for a father or 

mother, myself, if we weren’t about the same age. 
. . . But you can’t go by appearances, Peter, old 

scout. If your old side-partner, O’Malley, were 
here, he’d say, ‘You never can tell, son, you never can 
tell’.” 


CHAPTER XII 

The Man with the Undershot Jaw 


TJETER CLANCY, alias Mr. Fletcher Kenyon, 
A had already had a busy but interesting morn¬ 
ing. At the breakfast table he had learned, from a 
short conversation between Curtis Fane and his 
cousin, Matchem, that the former intended to spend 
the morning in New York. The fact had aroused in 
the mind of the detective considerable curiosity. 
Was it merely that Curtis wished to avoid the police 
detectives who were sure to play a return engage¬ 
ment, and the newspaper reporters who would, un¬ 
doubtedly, besiege the house? Or was there some 
other reason for his hurried departure? Had he 
really pressing business in town, as he stated? And 
if so, what was its nature? A thing that could not 
be put off, in the present tragic circumstances, might 
be worth investigating. 

Always, in the back of Peter’s mind, was the curious 
incident of the plumber with the new clean rubber- 
soled shoes. What business could a plumber have 
had in the closet of the guest room in which Peter 
was so fortunate as to have been domiciled? Was 
there nothing of significance in the fact that the key 


13 


THE KEY 


114 

of that closet was on the inside of the door? And the 
handsome down quilt rumpled up in the corner? 
The explanation of all the circumstances was obvious 

if. . . . 

Even before the seemingly harmless and eccentric 
Mr. Fletcher Kenyon had left the breakfast table his 
course was decided on. To his satisfaction, he 
found that the telephone switchboard, which con¬ 
nected the extensions in the various rooms, was 
situated in a small room or closet off the servants’ 
hall and could be closed at will. With Matchem’s 
connivance he had quietly slipped into this room, 
immediately after breakfast, and closed and locked 
the door. A sure and swift manipulation of the 
switchboard obviated the possibility of any listening- 
in in the house. The New York call which he put 
through was answered promptly, and the obscure 
conversation which followed was evidently intelligi¬ 
ble at the other end of the wire. 

Peter hung up the receiver with a sigh of satisfac¬ 
tion and proceeded to call a certain firm in Morris- 
ville. He had no doubt about the number for, in the 
private-house directory, under the word “Plumber” 
there was only one entry. 

Mr. Tunbridge himself answered the call from 
Tower Hall. He was very polite even to a servant 
of so good a customer. 

“No,” he said, in surprise, replying to Peter’s 
carefully worded question. “Whatever the tools 
are, they can’t be ours. We didn’t send anybody 


MAN WITH THE UNDERSHOT JAW 115 

over this week at all.—Yes, I’m sure.—The last 
call we had was over a month ago, and I came 
myself.—No, nobody couldn’t have come without 
my knowing it. We’re shorthanded and there ain’t 
nobody here except Atterbury and me and neither 
of us was out of the place the hull week.—No, sir. 
Much obliged for your trouble, but the tools ain’t 
ours.” 

All through the morning this confident statement 
had remained in the back of Peter’s mind. The 
advent of the police detectives from Morrisville and 
the covert, amused observation of their methods had 
only kept it in the background. The sound of 
voices raised in expostulation as the reporters were 
one and all refused admittance at the great front 
door scarcely broke the thread of his thoughts. The 
incident of the search of the tower room for the will, 
which evidently was not to be found, had opened up 
various lines of speculation, but, with the true detec¬ 
tive insight, Peter knew that every circumstance 
must be considered and given the right place and 
value in the perplexing problem before a solution 
would be possible. 

And now, as the hour for the inquest drew near, 
he was still seeking for enlightenment, while he 
waited for Thomas Matchem in the heavy silence 
of the tower. His eyes instinctively roamed about 
the walls that he and Matchem had examined with 
such infinite care on the previous night. There was 
nothing they had missed, he assured himself. It 


ii 6 


THE KEY 


would have taken a day, at least, to remove all the 
books from the shelves. . . . There was, of 

course, the possibility that a secret spring might be 
concealed by any one of them, but a passage big 
enough to admit a man would necessarily show some 
joint in the plain, perfectly finished woodwork. 
And there was none to be found. The joining was 
perfect. The uprights, between the sections of 
shelves, all ran under a cornice at the top, and they 
had found no break in the cornice coincident with 
any of the uprights. 

Peter’s speculative eye returned at length to the 
door—the only door in the great silent room. 

The key was still in the lock, as he had first seen 
it—a rather large key with a finely wrought handle. 
It and the lock had a history, Matchem had told him. 
Gilbert had picked them up somewhere in Italy. 
The mechanism was complicated, old, but very 
strong, as witness the fact that the trim holding the 
bolt had been splintered while the lock itself re¬ 
mained uninjured. 

“It turns hard, too,” Peter was thinking. “Prac¬ 
tically impossible for a clever guy to work it through 
the keyhole from the outside. . . . And yet 

how else? . . . Matchem says Gilbert 

always kept it with him. . . His face travelled 

to the curtain behind which the dead body of Gilbert 
Fane had been discovered, and back to the door. 
“Matchem says . . . Matchem. . . 

The door opened quietly and closed again. 


MAN WITH THE UNDERSHOT JAW 117 

“They’ve gone Cl—Mr. Kenyon,” said Thomas 
Matchem, breathing a little quickly. “Mrs. Fane 
and Curtis have just left to go to the inquest in 
Morrisville, and James Haggerty is with them. Am 
going now to get my car. Meet you just beyond the 
turn of the drive, where you said, in three minutes. 

Right?” 

Peter nodded, and as soon as Tom disappeared he 
followed, locking the door and taking the key with 
him. There was no one in the spacious hall. Peter 
quietly let himself out of the front door and shuffled 
slowly down the drive, glancing about him with the 
casual interest of a stranger. 

As the trees at the turn of the drive shut out the 
view of the house, he heard a motor coming swiftly 
down behind him. 

“Hop in,” said Tom, opening the door as he 
slowed down. “Show you something in the way of 
speed, if you like,” and the gravity of his plain face 
was broken by a slight grin. “They make a lot of 
fun of my old boat, but she has legs, let me tell 
you.” 

“No hurry,” said Peter, smiling at the other's 
quaint enthusiasm. “Don't want to get there till 
they're all set. That old gallery in the court room's 
a piece of luck. Not much chance of anybody won¬ 
dering why Mr. Fletcher Kenyon's on in this piece, 
eh?” 

“Nobody'll see you, if you're careful,” Tom 
agreed. “Stairway goes up outside the court room 


n8 THE KEY 

and if you sit back you can see without attracting 
attention. 55 

‘Til be careful, don’t worry, 55 Peter assured him, 
automatically bracing himself as the car swung out 
of the gates and took the turn into the main road. 
“And you’d better be careful, too,” he added. “No 
use burning up the macadam, just to show you’ve 
got wings. There’s plenty of time.” 

“Yes, I know,” Tom answered, without slacken¬ 
ing speed, “but I have an errand to do as we go 
along. Won’t take but a minute.” 

“Then why rush it?” asked Peter, clinging to the 
seat. “Slow down a bit. I ask it as one uninsured 
man to another.” 

Tom looked quizzically at the detective and re¬ 
laxed the pressure of his foot on the gas. They had 
slowed down to twenty-five miles an hour and had 
passed the end of the high brick wall that guarded 
the Tower Hall estate, when Peter caught sight 
of a small white-painted farmhouse set near the 
road. The house was so normal in its position and 
environment that of itself it would not have at¬ 
tracted his attention, but, just as they drew near it, 
he was aware of a girl standing at the entrance to a 
path which led into a thick grove of hemlocks and 
back in the direction whence they had come. The 
intense pallor of the girl’s face, and her expression, 
even in the swift moment of passing, arrested his 
attention, and he turned quickly in his seat to look 
again at the wild, exquisite, tragic face. It was 


MAN WITH THE UNDERSHOT JAW 119 

gone. Where she had disappeared, Peter could not 
tell. Perhaps she had slipped into the barn which 
was near at hand. 

Tom had noted Clancy’s quick movement though 
he misinterpreted its cause. 

“You knew that was Duncan Cameron’s house?” 
he asked, admiringly. “You certainly are a wonder, 
Clancy.” 

Peter made a deprecatory gesture. 

“The girl I just saw there—dark gipsy face— 
black hair—was that the daughter you spoke of?” 

Tom turned, though the house was now almost lost 
to view. 

“Did you see her, poor thing?” he asked. “Yes, 
must have been she. Shy, wild little creature. 
Pretty, too, in an odd sort of way. Poor child, poor 
child,” he repeated, and relapsed into silence. 

“Path back there by the farm run up through the 
woods to the big house?” asked Peter, after a mo¬ 
ment. 

“What? Path?” echoed Tom. “Oh, yes. There’s 
a short cut along the bottom of the old quarry and 
up the hill. Why?” 

“Oh, nothing,” said Peter. “Just thinking. 
. . . When we come back it might be just as well 

to drop me at the farm and let Mr. Kenyon take a 
little exercise. We mustn’t be seen together on this 
trip, you know. Is there a good path?” 

“Oh, yes. It’s plain enough. Duncan uses it all 
the time. Cuts off nearly half a mile.” 


120 


THE KEY 


“Good,” said Peter. “Then I’ll go back that 
way. Well, what are we stopping here for? Noth¬ 
ing wrong with the car, is there ? ” 

“Not so you’d notice it,” said Tom, instantly on 
the defensive. “ It’s the errand I spoke to you about. 
Owe a little money to this man here.” 

He had drawn up before a long, low concrete 
building that bore a sign lettered “Regal’s Garage.” 

He honked his horn loudly and, without undue 
haste, a man in greasy overalls advanced from the 
grimy interior and came slowly toward them. His 
saturnine expression relaxed a little when he saw 
Tom’s honest face. 

“Got your fifty bucks changed, did you?” he said 
with a grin, as Tom held out a five-dollar bill. 
“Dollar fifteen you owed me, wasn’t it?” 

From his trousers pocket he pulled out a fairly 
good-sized roll of bills, and Peter noted that the out¬ 
side one was yellow and new. As he sorted out 
Tom’s change the proprietor of the garage spoke 
again, half to himself: 

“Kinda funny I had two customers, one right 
after the other, and nothin’ on ’em less than fifties. 
And believe me, I wouldn’t have let the other one get 
away like I did you,” and he grinned at Tom. “He 
coulda spent what little there was left of the night 
right here in front of the garage. Must have been in 
some hurry to be willin’ to pay me fifty for towin’ him 
in to Newark. I was fair with him, too. I says, 
‘Mister, leave your car here and I’ll fix it up for you, 


MAN WITH THE UNDERSHOT JAW 121 

and you can catch the milk train from Morrisviile in 
about an hour, and come back for your car! But if 
he’d rather pay me fifty to tow him into the city, 
that I should worry.” 

He had placed three dollar bills and some jingling 
change in Tom’s hand, and Tom was all ready to 
throw in the clutch when, on an impulse, Peter 
checked him. 

“That was night before last that the fellow had the 
break-down?” he asked, glancing keenly at the 
garage man. “And he had nothing less than fifties ?” 

“Right you are, Boss. Though it was nearer 
morning. Between two and three o’clock. Hell of 
a hurry he was in and some artist when it come to 
cussin’. I learned a lot of new ones before we got 
started and I thought I was pretty good, at that.” 

Only a coincidence, probably nothing more, Peter 
assured himself; but surely enough to make a good 
hound prick up his ears. A package of fifty-dollar 
bills missing from the tower room . . . and a 

strange man turning up at an out-of-the-way garage, 
between two and three o’clock on the night of the 
murder . . . with nothing on him but fifties. 

“Sounds like my old friend, Clarence Smith,” he 
said aloud, taking a name at random. “ He can curse 
in nine languages. What did this guy look like?” 

“Well, now,” Regal said, slowly, “since you ask 
me, I’ll tell you something funny about the way 
that feller looked. When he come here—course 
the light wasn’t very good outside that time of night, 


122 


THE KEY 


but I switched on that big lamp up there as I came 
out, and I saw him plain—well, he was a thin, kinda 
short chap I thought, and he was wearin’ a soft felt 
hat pulled down over his face.” 

Peter nodded. The man went on: 

“I towed him in to Rhinehardt’s garage, near the 
tube in Newark. He left his car there, and I asked 
him if I shouldn’t take him wherever he was goin’. 
Seemed only square, after he’d paid me fifty bucks for 
the job. But he spoke up pretty sharp and said he 
didn’t need nothing more from me. He went on out 
of the garage ahead of me, and I saw him turn 
toward the tube station. It was only about half a 
block away and at that time of night the streets was 
empty. Wasn’t a soul but him in that block. I’d 
swear it. Well, Boss, when he passed the first 
electric light, he was like I told you—short, thin 
man, with a felt hat, but”— he shook an impressive 
forefinger—“when he passed the next light he was a 
tall upstandin’ chap wearin’ a cap. Now I ask you, 
ain’t that a funny thing?” 

Peter’s eyes narrowed. 

“Sure somebody didn’t come out of a house that 
you thought was your man?” he asked. 

“Certain, sure. Wasn’t but that one feller on the 
street. Struck me so funny I waited to see—but 
there wasn’t nobody but him.” 

“Humph. Queer,” said Peter, with a side glance 
at Matchem’s bewildered face. “You didn’t happen 
to notice your man’s shoes, did you?” 


MAN WITH THE UNDERSHOT JAW 123 

The garage man shook his head doubtfully. 

“He wasn’t, by any chance, wearing a new pair of 
white sneakers, was he?” asked Peter. 

Again Regal shook his head, regarding his inter¬ 
locutor curiously. 

“I don’t think so,” he replied, slowly. “Think 
I’d have noticed if they’d been white. But, of course, 
I mightn’t. Didn’t think so much about him until I 
seen him make himself something else again. That 
was damned queer, wasn’t it. Boss?” 

“It sure was,” agreed Peter. 

“Say! By jinks!” exclaimed Regal, suddenly. 
“You two’re from Tower Hall where the murder 
was night before last, ain’t you? Is that why you 
want to know? You don’t think this here guy had 
anything to do with that job, do you?” He spoke 
eagerly, excitedly. 

“It’s a long shot,” said Peter. “Probably noth¬ 
ing to it. Only, as you say, it’s sort of queer. Tell 
me, what was your man’s face like? Can you 
describe it?” 

The garage man frowned. 

“His hat was pulled down, like I told you, and I 
couldn’t see his face very plain. I only know he was 
smooth-shaved. Had a long square chin and his 
lower lip stuck out a lot—what you call undershot, 
he was, but the rest of his face I don’t know anything 
about,” regretfully. 

“All right,” said Peter. “Guess we’ll have to let 
it go at that. We ought to be getting on. Thanks 


THE KEY 


124 

for the information. If anything comes of it, we’ll 
let you know. In the meantime, keep it all under 
your hat, will you? No use saying anything about it 
to anybody. You understand.” 

Regal, looking very wise, nodded his head. 

“It was Rhinehardt’s garage in Newark,” he said 
again as Tom started the car. “You might take a 
chance-” 

As they drove swiftly away Peter glanced at his 
silent companion. 

“That’s one thing I won’t do, anyway,” he said, 
with a grin. 

“What?” asked Matchem, in surprise. “Not 
go to Rhinehardt’s garage?” 

“No, I don’t mean that,” said Peter, decidedly. 
“I won’t take a chance. I’ll make certain.” 



CHAPTER XIII 
“Wilful Murder” 

OpHE inquest was called for four o'clock, and in 
spite of the delay, it was only a few minutes 
past that hour when Thomas Matchem with diffi¬ 
culty found a place and parked his car at some little 
distance along the street on which fronted the old 
historic Court House of Morrisville. 

Not often, perhaps, had the quaint yellow and 
white Colonial building looked down upon a more 
colourful scene. The broad road on both sides was 
crowded with cars, the walk which led steeply up to 
the entrance was alive with people, and several police¬ 
men were muscularly and vociferously occupied in 
keeping order in the crowd. Several camera men 
from the newspapers had found a place of vantage 
near the entrance and were already waiting for the 
party from Tower Hall to come out when the inquest 
should be over. 

It was with difficulty that Peter and Matchem 
made their way through the eager crowd, but at 
length they reached the door and were admitted after 
a few words of explanation. 

The dim hall seemed very quiet after the noise and 


125 


126 


THE KEY 


movement outside. No one had been admitted after 
the court room was full and the hall was compara¬ 
tively empty. As they passed down it Peter saw, 
on his left, a stairway and a sign beside it marked 
“Gallery.” With a nod to Matchem he slipped 
quietly up the stairs, leaving Tom to enter the main 
floor of the court room. 

A moment later the detective found himself peer¬ 
ing over the heads of two excited and expensively 
dressed ladies and down into the body of the court. 
Thomas Matchem was just taking his place among 
the witnesses, before the Coroner’s desk. 

Peter could see them all clearly from his post of 
observation. There was Mrs. Fane, slim and ele¬ 
gant in her simple black dress. Her head was held 
proudly and she had put back a soft thin veil so that 
her face could be plainly seen, even from that dis¬ 
tance. A place had been reserved for Matchem on 
her right and she turned to him with a little sad half¬ 
smile as he sat down. 

On her left was her brother-in-law, Curtis Fane. 
It was at him, for reasons of his own, that Peter 
looked most earnestly. The man’s face was pale 
under its tan and Peter thought his eyes were very 
restless. Several times during the proceedings he 
caught Fane looking covertly about him, and each 
time, as the eyes returned to the face of the Coroner, 
it seemed to Peter that there was an expression of re¬ 
lief in them. 

The inquiry proceeded quietly enough. The 


“WILFUL MURDER” 


127 

police officers from Bernard Ridge and the two 
county detectives, with the doctor, gave their evi¬ 
dence, adding nothing, thereby, to Peter's already 
acquired facts. 

James Haggerty, being next in order, testified to 
the incidents within his knowledge with the air of an 
honest man who is glad to tell all he knows. Only 
once did he hesitate, and that was when the Coroner 
asked if he had any explanation to offer as to the 
manner in which entrance might be made to the 
tower room, the door of which was found locked on 
the inside. 

“No, sir,” James made answer in his carefully mod¬ 
ulated servant’s voice. “Unless-” and stopped. 

“Unless what?” asked the Coroner, sharply. “If 
you can throw any light on this case it is your duty 
to do so. Unless what?” he insisted. 

James Haggerty’s pale eyes took on a strange look. 
He glanced up through the tall windows and back at 
the Coroner. He cleared his throat and moistened 
his lips before he answered in a low husky tone: 

“There’s them that can go through locked doors, 
and them to which stone walls is no bar,” he said, 
solemnly. “You’ll never find the man that drove 
home that cruel knife. You’ll not believe me, but it 
was no living man, at all, at all. ... I saw 
with my own eyes. . . . Others were there 
. . . but it was only me that saw . . . the 
shadow of Death.” 

Peter saw Matchem start and look up at Haggerty 


128 


THE KEY 


curiously. The old servant was shaking from head 
to foot. The Coroner, seeing the man’s condition, 
quietly told him to be seated and called on Mrs. Fane. 

She told her part of the story with commendable 
clearness. There was no flaw in her proud, calm 
bearing. The questions were few and soon over. 
Peter noticed with interest that she reiterated the 
statement that she had last seen her husband alive at 
eleven o’clock on the night of the 30th of September. 

Curtis Fane, when called, testified that he had left 
his brother shortly after that hour. The two state¬ 
ments agreed perfectly, and yet, Peter considered, 
Matchem was certain that it was after twelve. 
Matchem, however, made no allusion to this dis¬ 
crepancy of time in his present exposition before the 
jury of the facts concerning his cousin’s death, which 
had come under his observation, but he had insisted 
to Peter that he could not have been mistaken as to 
the time. A little thing, perhaps—a matter of an 
hour only—but cases like this are made up of little 
things. It is the little things that are important. 
It is the little things that must be made to fit—to fit 
exactly. 

The slow heavy voice of the Coroner droned on, 
addressing the jury. He instructed them at length 
(and with an exactitude which suggested a lately 
refreshed memory) on their duties. They were to 
concern themselves with the cause of the death of 
the deceased as indicated by the evidence and with 
that only. When he had finished, the jury retired 


“WILFUL MURDER” 129 

with much shuffling of feet and presently returned, 
while a hush fell on the excited crowd. 

“Wilful murder at the hands of a person or per¬ 
sons unknown.” 

The verdict was pronounced by the foreman in a 
solemn voice. The inquest was over. 

Peter, anxious to avoid observation, was about to 
slip through the gallery door which was just behind 
him, when his last backward look was caught and 
held by the face of Curtis Fane now turned full in his 
direction. For a flash the man’s face was contorted 
in an almost diabolical look of anger, fear, loathing— 
a mixture of poignant emotions. His eyes were 
raised. He was looking at something, someone in 
the gallery at Peter’s right. 

Screening himself behind a wonderful head of 
feathers borne by the fashionable lady in front of him 
Peter glanced sharply in the direction Fane’s eyes had 
indicated. The gallery held only three rows of 
benches, but it was crowded to capacity. Every¬ 
body was standing and some had mounted the back 
bench in order to get a clearer view of the court 
room. Among them, at some little distance, Peter 
saw the figure of a tall, slender, youngish man 
smartly dressed, and carrying in one hand a new 
gray felt hat. The other hand was partly raised, as 
if he had made some gesture which Peter had not 
been quick enough to catch. As Peter looked, the 
hand came down and was thrust into a trouser 
pocket. The man’s expression was quiet enough, 


THE KEY 


130 

and in other circumstances Peter would have thought 
nothing of the gesture which he had only half seen. 
. . . If it had not been for the chance conversa¬ 

tion with the garage man Peter would have placed 
no weight on the fact that the man’s face, seen in 
profile, possessed a long, thin, spade-like chin 
heavily undershot. Another coincidence? Perhaps. 
Was there any one else in the gallery who might, 
presumably, have called that ugly expression to the 
face of Curtis Fane? 

Peter slipped quietly out and took his station on 
the dark landing, carefully scrutinizing each person 
as he or she left the gallery. Most of them appeared 
in groups of two or three, talking volubly and ex¬ 
citedly among themselves. The man with the long 
chin lingered until nearly the last. He had just 
emerged, and Peter was about to follow him, when 
Peter was aware of a small dark figure flitting past 
him in the gloom; a timid figure slipping swiftly along 
as if anxious to avoid observation. Peter had only 
one glimpse of her face, but it was enough. It was 
the girl he had seen at Duncan Cameron’s farm. 

Peter whistled softly to himself. Was it the girl 
or the man? Was it either of these two persons 
who had excited Curtis Fane’s uncontrollable emo¬ 
tion? Had they two anything to do with each 
other? Apparently not, for the girl sped swiftly 
down the stairs without glancing at the man as she 
passed him. “A wild-goose chase,” thought Peter 
as he followed, keeping the man in sight. “But I 


“WILFUL MURDER” 


131 

have a hunch. . . . The girl will be easy to keep 

track of . . . but I’ve got to make certain about 

this guy with the King Alphonso jaw. May be one 
of the merry villagers, but he doesn’t look the part. 
Anyway . . .” 

His glance darted hither and thither as he followed 
slowly through the crowd in the wake of the party 
from the Hall, who were now at a safe distance ahead. 
Not once did he lose sight of the smart new light felt 
hat which could be seen moving slowly forward. 

As Peter’s eye encountered that of a plump elderly 
man at his right, a little distance off among the 
crowd, he breathed a quick sigh of satisfaction. 
Without any visible effort, the elderly man edged 
his way along in a course which, in a moment, 
brought him to Peter’s side. Neither of the two so 
much as glanced at the other. 

“See the chap with the new gray hat with a black 
band just ahead there,” said Peter under his breath. 

“Dark hair, blue suit with white pin-stripe?” 
rejoined the plump man, scarcely moving his lips. 

“Right,” said Peter. “Find out all you can and 
meet me just outside the Tower Hall gates, shrub¬ 
bery, left-hand side, to-night, ten o’clock. If I’m not 
there, wait.” The older man started to say some¬ 
thing, but Peter checked him with a slight gesture. 
“Chap looking for me is Matchem. Coming this 
way. Give him the once over and tell me what you 
think. Don’t lose sight of the other man. See you 
later. Good luck.” 


THE KEY 


132 

With the tail of a trained eye on his quarry, the 
elderly man observed closely the face of Thomas 
Matchem as he greeted Peter. 

“Following instructions,” the old man grumbled, 
inwardly, grinning to himself. “You’re a smart 
boy, Pete, and no mistake, but if you’d only waited a 

minute I could have told you-Well, it doesn’t 

matter. There’s no harm in waiting and I’ll spring it 
on you to-night. It’ll be some fun to see your face. 
‘The guy in the new gray felt hat,’ he says—sure 
enough. The guy in the new gray hat. . . . 

But how did Pete get on . . . ? ” 



CHAPTER XIV 

Clancy Makes an Odd Request 

T 70 LL 0 WING his original plan, on the return 
^ journey Peter left Matchem just before they 
reached the Cameron Farm and went forward on 
foot. As soon as Tom’s car was out of sight, Peter 
boldly approached the neat white house and was in 
time to see the girl he had seen at the inquest get out 
of a little old Saxon car which she had evidently just 
driven into the barn. 

Peter pulled off his hat and spoke to her pleasantly. 

“Could I get a drink of water here?” he asked. 
“Been taking a long walk and Fm very thirsty.” 
He made use of the slow drawl of Mr. Fletcher Ken¬ 
yon. 

The girl, with a quick gasp, drew her long dark 
cape closer about her and pointed with a slender 
brown hand to a well near the house, but said nothing. 

“Any trick about getting the water up?” Peter 
asked, hoping to hear the sound of her voice. “Fm 
not much used to wells. Would it be too much 
trouble-” 

Without a word the girl went to the well, and with 
her back to Peter swiftly drew up the bucket, filled a 


133 



THE KEY 


134 

glass which stood on a small shelf, set it down, and 
without a look in his direction entered the house and 
closed the door. 

“ Foiled again,” said Peter to himself with a grin 
and a frown, and hastily drinking off the glass of 
water, he crossed the open space in front of the barn 
and entered the path which he had previously noted. 

It was a well-worn path, leading steeply upward 
through a thick dark grove of hemlock. His feet fell 
soundlessly in the deep drift of tawny needles. Over¬ 
head the drooping branches interlaced, and scarcely 
a gleam of the gay autumn sunshine found its way 
through their thick leaves. It was beautiful, but 
melancholy beyond belief, and Peter thought with 
pity of the girl he had recently seen emerging from 
their shadows. If this was the sanctuary of her 
troubled soul, it was a sad sanctuary indeed. 

Peter was glad when the mournful hemlocks gave 
place to a wood of silver maples just beginning to 
don their autumn dress. The air seemed lighter, and 
great splashes of sunshine turned the silver trunks 
to gold, and gleamed on the upward path. 

A sharp turn in the path, and Peter saw a sight 
which, preoccupied as he was, caught his breath. 
Towering above him in a rude semi-circle rose the 
sheer walls of the old quarry, their dull reds and 
yellows washed with purple shadow from the de¬ 
clining sun. 

On the near side, seemingly directly over his head, 
the tall tower of the great house rose, impregnable. 


CLANCY MAKES AN ODD REQUEST 135 

At the foot of the cliff there lay a dark stagnant 
pool scummed with green. That it was considered 
dangerously deep was evidenced by the stout railing 
which ran along the margin between it and the path. 

There was something curiously sinister in the 
sleek black and green water, something secret and 
intriguing. Recent rains had filled the shelving cup 
to the brim. On the side nearest the path it had 
occasionally overflowed, leaving a thin, slippery, 
reddish sediment. Even now it was not quite dry, 
Peter observed—and started forward with a half- 
suppressed cry. 

Two things he had seen in the flash of an eye: Al¬ 
most at his feet, and pointing away from the pool, 
was the clear impression of a man's shoe—somewhat 
narrower than ordinary but otherwise differing little 
from the print his own shoe would have made. 
Farther on, and pointing toward the pool, was an¬ 
other footprint, equally clear in outline, but entirely 
different in appearance. This one was broader, and 
the sole and heel showed a small fine pattern over 
the entire surface. 

Stooping low, in the pose of a pictured savage on a 
trail, Peter crept forward, closely examining the fast¬ 
drying mud. Just beyond the nearest footprint 
there was a short space of clean stone. Between 
that and a low shelf of overhanging rock there was 
a flat patch of earth which had recently been soft 
but was now hardening. In this there were a num¬ 
ber of prints, overlapping and confused. He could 


136 THE KEY 

make out parts only of the patterned soles. They 
were almost completely obliterated by a number of 
more or less clear impressions of the plain-soled shoe 
he had just discovered. One fact common to all 
these various impressions struck Peter as significant. 
In every case the heel was nearest the low ledge of 
rock, the toe pointing almost squarely away from it. 
On the far side of the rock there was no print of the 
smooth sole. On the near side there was no indica¬ 
tion whatever of the patterned one. 

Peter whistled softly under his breath, and stood 
for a long time looking from the trampled mud at his 
feet to the dark, secret water of the pool. Then he 
stepped back to the path, picked up a large loose 
stone and, returning, threw it as far as he could. It 
fell with a dull, heavy splash about midway of the 
pool. 

Thoughtfully, Peter glanced upward at the high, 
encircling rocks, sheer on every side, except for the 
short space where the railing protected the treacher¬ 
ous, slippery margin. Slowly he shook his head. 

“Ordinary outfit no good here,” he muttered to 
himself. “Would need a special kind of tackle— 
tackle?” he repeated, a light flashing in his blue eyes. 

“Yes, tackle, by heck! I know-” His face 

broke into a broad grin, and he slapped his thigh. 
“Good place, old scout!” he ejaculated, flashing a 
look all about. “A hell of a good place—but not 
good enough. Not good enough by half,” and with 
this enigmatical remark he proceeded on his way. 


CLANCY MAKES AN ODD REQUEST 137 

The path wound away from the quarry and en* 
tered the cultivated grounds of the Hall at a point 
near the stables and garage. As he emerged from the 
woods at least a decade seemed to have fallen upon 
the buoyant Mr. Peter Clancy. Slowly and labori¬ 
ously he shuffled up the drive, entered the great door, 
and absently allowed a footman to relieve him of his 
hat. He started toward the tower door, when he 
was respectfully informed by the same footman that 
two persons from Morrisville were in consultation 
with Mr. Curtis Fane and Mr. Matchem in the tower, 
and that Mr. Curtis had given instructions that no 
one was to be admitted. 

Rightly guessing that the two persons in question 
were the police detectives, bent on further investiga¬ 
tion, Peter sought his room after leaving a word for 
Matchem wi-th the servant. 

He had plenty of food for thought as he sat alone 
in his elegantly appointed room. Now this way 
and now that, he tried the various bits of information 
in different order and combination. Piece by piece 
he sorted them over and over, as one sorts the tiles 
in a hand of Mah Jongg, placing them in broken 
sequences, striving to fill his pairs, to complete his 
sets, to make them all of one suit. 

There was the question of motive. . . . Who 

would benefit most by the death of Gilbert Fane? 
. . . In the absence of a will, the small son and 

heir—and after him, in point of amount, his hand¬ 
some mother. But was there a will? None had 


THE KEY 


138 

been found, Matchem said. Apparently there was 
none, or so Matchem seemed to believe. . . . 

Was the document which had been taken almost 
from the grasp of the dead man a will, as Matchem 
thought? That blood-stained paper might tell 
much if it could be found. But Peter had little hope* 
of that. No one but an absolute fool would keep 
or hide so incriminating a document. It would have 
been utterly destroyed; of that, Peter was certain. 
Burned, in all probability—and immediately. . . . 

During Curtis Fane’s absence that morning Peter 
had entered his rooms through the communicating 
door, the lock of which had given him little trouble, 
but had found nothing that could be considered in 
the least incriminating. There were ashes in the 
fireplace, but that was easily accounted for by the 
season of the year, and they appeared to be wood 
ashes entirely. If any papers had been burned they 
had been entirely consumed. . . . There were 

ashes in the fireplace in Tom Matchenrs room, as 
far as that went, and probably in every other oc¬ 
cupied bedroom in the house. . . . No, there 

was little to be expected in that direction. 

But other circumstances seemed more promising— 
of enlightenment, at least, though the final solution 
still seemed very far away. O’Malley would have 
something to tell him that night. There had been a 
gleam in his old partner’s eye, when they had en¬ 
countered each other in front of the court house, 
which promised something of interest. 


CLANCY MAKES AN ODD REQUEST 139 

“Anyhow/’ thought Peter, “and in any event, 
some time to-morrow Em going fishing—early in the 
morning if Matchem can find for me the things I 
need, and that’s fairly likely, I should think, in a 
place like this. Somebody ought to have. . . 

A knock at the door announced the person just 
then uppermost in his mind. 

“You’re the very man I wanted to see,” said Peter 
as Tom entered. “I want to go fishing.” And at 
the look of amazement in the other’s eyes, he added, 
laughing, “Don’t think I’ve suddenly gone bug. I 
can think better when I’m fishing than at any other 
time and I’ve just got to get on some stream or pool 
to thresh this thing out. Got any tackle I can use? 
Somebody here must fish, with all the streams and 
ponds in this part of New Jersey.” 

Tom looked at the detective with a quaintly 
puzzled expression in which was more than a touch 
of amusement. 

“I believe you’re almost as much of a crank as I 
am, Clancy,” he said. “Who’d have thought that 

a clever chap like you- Well, well. Fishing! One 

of my hobbies, too. Trout season’s closed, but we 
could try for bass somewhere, if we had the time. 
Seriously, old man, you aren’t thinking of-” 

“Matchem,” said Peter, gravely, “I was never 
more serious in my life, and you can take it from me 
that I’m going fishing. But I’m going alone. It’s a 
peculiar kind of fish I’m after, but I know just what 
I need—besides, maybe, a lot of patience—to get 


THE KEY 


140 

him. In the first place, I want a short, strong rod, 
a surf rod if you’ve got it.” 

Tom looked at Peter with thoughtful, puzzled eyes 
and nodded. “Yes, I have one.” 

“Then,” Peter continued, “I want a strong line, 
several weak-fish spreaders, a number of heavy gang 
hooks, and two or three sinkers. It’s on the cards 
that I may lose some of your tackle and I want to be 
prepared.” 

“Well, I’m damned,” said Tom, quietly. “What 
you can want with an outfit like that in any of the 

waters near here- Unless- Clancy, what 

have you got up your sleeve now? Can’t you tell 
me?” 

“Can’t you guess?” countered Peter. 

Tom slowly shook his head. “Of course, I 
can imagine—in a way—but exactly what you’re 
after. . . .” 

“I’ll tell you, old man, as soon as there’s anything 
really interesting” said Peter, cheerfully. “Now, 
can you get me what I need ? It will speed things up 
a little if you can—at least I hope so—though, mind, 
I’m not promising anything.” 

“I can let you have everything you’ve mentioned,” 
said Tom. “ I have a pretty complete deep-sea outfit. 
But, Clancy, I do wish you could set my mind at rest. 
Those detectives from Morrisville aren’t inclined to 
give up yet. The papers have made such a damned 
furore and the police want to make good somehow. 
I wish to God they were out of the house! It’s kill- 



CLANCY MAKES AN ODD REQUEST 141 

ing us all. Denise looks like death itself since she 
came home and found the detectives had followed us. 
Isn’t there anything to be done?” 

Notwithstanding his determination to suspect 
everything and everybody, Peter regarding the plain 
kindly face Before him found himself wavering in 
spite of the suspicious inferences he had already 
made. How was it possible to reconcile with a 
perfectly diabolical maliciousness and criminality the 
big brown eyes which looked so honest, the quiet 
concerned voice which sounded so sincere? Surely 
this man had nothing to gain and a lot to lose by the 
death of his patron—and besides there was some¬ 
thing about the man that “got you.” No use deny¬ 
ing it. Peter said: 

“I’m doing everything I know, Matchem, every 
blessed thing. A good many straws point in one 
general direction but nothing but time and a devil of 
a lot of patience, I’m afraid, will show whether 
they’re pointing straight. In the meantime, there’s 
no way that I know of to get rid of the police. Of 
course they might stumble on something by chance, 
but all the bets are against their coming across any¬ 
thing I don’t know about already. That may 
sound as if I were struck on myself, but I can’t help 
it if it does.” 

Tom waved this last remark aside. 

“Too many people know what you can do, 
Clancy,” he said, “and those detectives don’t look as 
if they’d see through the side of a house. The thing 


THE KEY 


142 

that worries me . . . Clancy, suppose they find 

out some of the things you do know”—his voice 
dropped—“ and I can’t help suspecting . . . are 

they likely to go off half-cocked and make trouble for 
—anybody?” 

“Would it break your heart,” said Peter, slowly, 
“if they did make trouble for—anybody? Suppos¬ 
ing ‘anybody’ had murdered his own brother.” 

Tom started forward. 

“I can’t believe it, Clancy! I won’t believe it,” 
vehemently. “He may be a lot of things he ought 
not to be, but not that! Not that! It’s got to 
be explained in some other way. He’s wild and 
reckless, I know, but he was a damned nice kid. 
We used to ride and fish and hunt together. He 

isn’t capable of- No. No. Not that. Other 

things, perhaps, but not—what you seem to imply. 
There is some other explanation of—whatever it is 
you’ve dug up, and we’ll have to find it!” He 
paused a moment, knocking one of his clenched 
hands sharply against his teeth. “Clancy! I’ve 
been thinking of something. It seems wild. . . . 
What James Haggerty said at the inquest made me 
wonder. . . . Do you remember? He said, ‘No 

human hand struck that cruel blow,’ or something 
like that. . . . The door was locked, and we 

can’t find any other way to get into the tower 
room-” 

Peter with difficulty refrained from laughing 
aloud. There was something so absurd in the idea 



CLANCY MAKES AN ODD REQUEST 143 

of this scientific amateur casting all his material ideas 
to the winds at the chance word of a superstitious 
servant, that Peter could not keep the amusement 
out of his face. It showed, too, in his voice when he 
asked: 

“You meaii you think a ghost did it—and got 
away with ten fifty-dollar bills to boot? Some 
spook!” 

Tom’s figure perceptibly stiffened. 

“Perhaps I may seem all kinds of a fool to you, 
Clancy.” he said, quietly. “I admit I have been 
considered so by a good many people. And I may 
quite readily be one in this instance. There’s one 
thing I’m going to ask of you, however. As I got 
you into this, I feel that I have the right to ask that 
you will in no case arrest—my cousin—no matter 
what evidence you may find, without giving me time 
to put my theory to the test.” 

Peter rubbed his forefinger up and down his nose 
as he eyed Matchem curiously. “How long will it 
take you to test your theory?” he asked. 

“I can’t quite tell. A day, possibly more. It will 
depend on how long a time I’m able to have the 
tower room to myself.” 

“You think you’ll find the key to the riddle in the 
tower, then?” 

“I think I may . . . possibly. ... If 

my theory has anything of truth in it . . . I’ll 

find . . . something ... in the tower.” 


CHAPTER XV 
O’Malley Tails On 

TT WAS nearing ten o’clock that same evening 
A when Mr. Fletcher Kenyon came down the great 
carved staircase and quietly approached the main 
entrance of the house. A footman appeared from 
nowhere in particular and handed him his hat and 
stick. There was something a little disconcerting 
to one of Peter’s unostentatious habits in the ubiqui¬ 
tousness of servants in a huge establishment of this 
sort, but in this instance it did not affect his plans. 

“Just going out for a little fresh air before I retire,” 
he said to the man. “I may stroll about for an hour 
or so.” 

“Very good, sir,” said the servant, respectfully. 
“ You’ll only have to knock when you return. "The 
house will be locked at eleven, but someone will be up 
to let you in.” 

“Thanks,” said Peter, and passed out of the big 
carved door, which the man closed behind him. 

When Peter had gone a little way down the care¬ 
fully tended drive, he turned and looked back at the 
house. The great bulk of the tower loomed above 
him, dark and sombre save for a few slits of pale 
144 


> O’MALLEY TAILS ON 145 

light high up in the walls. Someone was in the 
tower room. Probably Thomas Matchem, busily 
engaged in working out a preposterous theory of his 
own. What could that theory be? Peter wondered. 
The man seemed sane enough. Queer, eccentric, 
unworldly apparently, but still sane. He didn’t 
have to be told that “the straws,” of which Peter 
had spoken, pointed in the direction of his cousin, 
Curtis Fane. . . . And that made Matchem 

anxious. Was this “theory” only for the purpose 
of creating a diversion? To gain time? And if so, 
for what? 

Peter turned the matter over in his mind as he 
walked quickly down the drive. It was very dark in 
the shadow of the overhanging trees and not much 
lighter in the open, for the moon was only just rising 
in a sky suffused with mist and clouds. Great bats 
were flying about overhead, scarcely distinguishable 
against the sky, but in their swift, silent passage 
adding a note of eeriness to the loneliness and silence. 

The highroad was empty as far as he could see in 
both directions when Peter stepped out upon it. 
Without hesitation he turned to the right, walked a 
few paces from the gates, stopped, and whistled a few 
notes with a falling cadence. Immediately a bulky 
shadow detached itself from the blackness of the 
trees a little farther down the road and came quickly 
toward him. 

“’Lo, O’Malley,” said Peter, reaching for a hand 
that met his halfway. “ What you got ? ” 


THE KEY 


146 

“Maybe quite a lot, boy/’ said the gruff voice of 
the older man, as by tacit consent they both moved 
back into the shadow of the trees. “For you to 
judge. I don’t know exactly what you’re after, but 
this is what I’ve found out about your two friends.” 

“Have any trouble picking up Fane this morning?” 
asked Peter, eagerly. 

“Well, a bit of a job, you’ll admit, with all the 
passengers coming off that 10:15 train at Hoboken. 
Not so bad as the earlier trains, of course, but still 
trouble enough. If your description over the ’phone 
had been less complete I wouldn’t have had a look in, 
but there didn’t happen to be any other guy on that 
train wearing light gray spats and a diamond horse¬ 
shoe in his black tie, so I knew I had the right man.” 

“I knew you wouldn’t miss him, whoever else 
might,” said Peter, confidently. “Shoot!” 

“Soon’s I was sure I’d got him,” said O’Malley, 
speaking rapidly in a low tone, “I tailed on and 
followed him into the tube and over to Thirty-third 
Street. He picked up a yellow cab on the other side 
of Sixth Avenue, under the Elevated station, and I 
took another. We went straight up Sixth Avenue 
to Forty-fourth Street. We were blocked by the 
crosstown traffic at Forty-second Street for about a 
minute or so, and just there a funny thing happened. 
My man was sneaking up on the line, and we were 
nearer the curb than Fane’s taxi. There were only 
a few people waiting to cross, that being the south 
side of the street, and I happened to notice one man 


O'MALLEY TAILS ON 


147 

in particular. He was craning his neck to look in¬ 
side Fane’s cab, and there was a queer ugly look on 
his face. 

“I couldn’t see Fane at all, through the eye in the 
back of his taxi, as he was sitting over on the right- 
hand side, so I don’t know whether he saw the man 
on the curb then or not. Anyhow, while we were 
still held up, I saw the man in the street look about 
among the cabs, obviously looking for a vacant one. 
There wasn’t any in sight. So then he suddenly turned 
and crossed Forty-second Street, going north. He 
didn’t look back, that I saw, but I’m sure he must have 
seen Fane again as they passed, or else have grabbed 
the number of the taxi, for as soon as Fane’s cab got 
ahead of him, he broke into a run and followed it. 

“I passed him a second later, and when we turned 
into Forty-fourth Street he had just crossed Forty- 
third and was sprinting for all he was worth. I lost 
sight of him then, but after Fane stopped in front of 
the Mohawk, I looked back, and there was the guy 
coming hell-bent-for-election around the corner.” 

“The Mohawk Hotel?” Peter repeated with an 
upward inflection. 

“Yes, Pete. You remember. The Carstair’s 
Pearl Case. That’s the place.” 

Peter whistled softly. 

“Sure,” said O’Malley, as if his young partner had 
made a remark. “Not exactly the place you’d take 
your wife, if you had one, but that’s where Fane went, 
lucky for us. I sure felt as if the Little People were 


THE KEY 


148 

working for us. Brock’s still there and I knew he’d 
be mighty willin’ to oblige.” 

“Great stuff,” said Peter, excitedly. “Go on. 
What happened next?” 

“I rolled on a little way past, got out and told 
my cabby to wait. Then I strolled back toward the 
Mohawk. The guy that seemed so interested in 
Fane had stopped running and was coming on slow. 
I saw him look up at the gilt name on the door of the 
hotel as he passed. Then he crossed the street to a 
little shop opposite. The window was full of pink 
and white lace and du-dad truck that ought to make 
a man blush to think of somebody inside ’em, but he 
went in, and presently I saw him standing by the 
counter, talking to a scandalous pretty little Jew girl, 
and all the while keeping one eye on the Mohawk 
entrance. 

“I stood on the steps a minute, waiting for Fane 
to get out of the way. I could see him inside, talking 
to our old friend Brock at the desk. Pretty soon the 
switchboard operator turns and says something to 
Brock, Brock nods to Fane, and Fane goes over to 
the elevator. I waited until Fane had gone up and 
then I went in to see Brock. When I left the door, 
the guy was still in the lingerie shop.” 

“Good scout! And Brock could tell you who it 
was Fane had to see in such a hurry?” asked Peter, 
eagerly. 

“Sure thing,” O’Malley replied. “It was a 
lady.” 


O’MALLEY TAILS ON 


149 


“A lady? There?” 

“Well, I’m not the one to be saying a lady ain’t 
a lady ever-so-where she be.” O’Malley grinned 
in the darkness. “Anyhow, it was a female woman, 
by the name of Miss Margaret Stacy. Name mean 
anything to you?” 

“Devil a mean,” answered Peter, promptly. 
“Who is she?” 

“Brock says she used to be quite a girl in her day. 
Headliner on the Roofs for a while and then she sort 
of dropped out. Hit it rich with some Johnnie, 
Brock thinks. But that was some years ago. She’s 
fat now—and poor. At least she seemed to be all 
right when she turned up at the Mohawk a month or 
so ago, but she hasn’t settled her bill for the last two 
weeks and Brock’s getting anxious. She has some 
jewellery left and he’s thinking of getting out an at¬ 
tachment.” 

“Did he know Fane? Brock, I mean. Does he 
know Curtis Fane?” asked Peter, quickly. 

“Never laid eyes on him before, Brock says. 
Doesn’t think he’s ever been in the hotel before.” 

“You can fix it with Brock to get a peek at this 
Stacy girl if necessary, of course.” 

“Surest thing you know. Brock says she’s a 
friendly sort, and he knows her quite well. Pretty 
free and easy. No trouble to get a look at her, if 
desirable, Pete.” 

“Then that’s that,” said Peter, approvingly. 
“Now tell me what else. Did Fane go anywhere else 


THE KEY 


150 

before he came back here? And what became of the 
guy that followed him?” 

“No, that’s the only place Fane went to. I sat 
in the lobby reading a paper till he came down, which 
wasn’t over three quarters of an hour. He went 
right out to the street and called a taxi.” 

“Did he seem anxious? Worried or anything?” 

“Well—I don’t know. He seemed pretty steady, 
but he looked quick up and down the street, and 
hopped into his cab in a hurry. And then something 
happened that’ll interest you, Pete, I think.” 

The older man paused dramatically and Clancy 
impatiently pushed his arm. 

“Come across, old scout,” he said with a half- 
irritated laugh. “Don’t be such a tightwad. Spill 
it!” 

O’Malley chuckled. “It was like a scene in the 
movies, Pete,” he said. “Just as quick as that— 
with the film speeded up—Fane jumps in the taxi 
and slams the door on my side. As he does so, the 
other door jerks open and there’s the sprinter, right 
on the job! He says something I didn’t catch and 
Fane makes a grab at him, and being a lot more 
powerful than he looks, he chucks the other chap out 
into the street. At the same time he sings out some¬ 
thing to the driver about a sneak-thief and the taxi 
shoots off.” 

“Gee!” said Peter. “What in the devil? That 
guy knows something, O’Malley. , Did you-” 

“As the book says, T was torn by conflicting 


O’MALLEY TAILS ON 


151 

emotions, 5 55 said O’Malley, enjoying Clancy’s sus¬ 
pense. “I thought what you’ve just said. But 
there’s only one of me, clever as I am. However, the 
Little People must have been still with us, because 
as I went to hop into my taxi, I saw the chap in the 
street pick himself up, jump into another one that 
was standing there, and dash after Fane. So there 
we were. Fane in the lead, the other guy after him, 
and me after both!” 

“Good eye!” exclaimed Peter, slapping O’Malley 
on the back. “And then ? ” 

“Fane looked back and saw the other chap coming 
on. I didn’t want him to notice that I was in the 
party, so I told my man to pass ’em and then slow up. 
He did that and I got one eye bearing out of the little 
window in the back. Fane went west to Broadway, 
going a pretty good clip, me following in front, as you 
might say, and giving directions to my driver. That 
way we all turned down town on the west side of 
Times Square. Then, looking back, I saw Fane 
push something into his driver’s hand, and just as 
we got to Forty-second Street, he made a jump for it 
and dashed down one of the Subway entrances. 

“The other man was caught by the traffic part 
way up the block, but he was game. He threw 
some money at the chauffeur of his taxi and sprinted 
after Fane. But you know that Times Square sta¬ 
tion, Pete. Like a rabbit warren it is, and anybody 
with a minute’s start is on his way! I knew I hadn’t 
a chance, light on my feet as I am, but thank God, I 


THE KEY 


152 

have brains, if I do say it. I figured it out quick 
with the help of one of my hunches, and told my man 
to go slow along the south side of the square. And I 
was right, my boy! I hadn’t more than got to the 
corner of Broadway when here came Fane up into the 
street. He hailed a taxi, after looking carefully all 
about, and had himself driven down to the Hudson 
Tube at Thirty-third Street. And so he came back 
here with me at his tail.” 

“But the other man,” exlaimed Peter, disappoint¬ 
edly. “You lost him, O’Malley, and I’m inclined to 
think he was the best bet of the two.” 

“Not so fast, Pete,” growled the old man, senten- 
tiously. “Not so fast, lad. That’s the worst of being 
young. You do jump at conclusions.” 

“Then you didn’t lose him!” cried Peter. 

“There you go again, jumping first one way and 
then the other.” 

“Oh, Lord! For the love of Mike, tell it your 
own way, O’Malley. Did you lose him?” 

“I did,” said O’Malley. “But it doesn’t matter.” 

A grim chuckle in the old man’s voice caused 
Clancy to grab him by the arm. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, shaking it hard. 
“Why doesn’t it matter?” 

“ Because you pointed him out to me again yourself, 
Pete, my lad,” said O’Malley, laughing outright. 
“He’s the guy with the new gray felt hat.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


In the Old Desk 

npHANK you, sir. Good-night, sir.” 

The young footman who admitted Peter on 
his return from his nocturnal consultation with 
O’Malley stifled a yawn as he watched the “old 
gentleman” go slowly up the stairs. He turned out 
the hall lights as soon as the guest had disappeared 
from view and went thankfully to bed, glad that his 
lonely vigil in the silent house was over. 

Peter went noiselessly along the upper hall to his 
own room. As he opened his door, somewhere below, 
in the dark still house, a clock, muffled by distance, 
struck eleven. Peter mechanically noted the hour 
while he proceeded to prepare for bed. He had made 
better time than he had expected, and was looking 
forward to a good long rest even though it would 
be necessary for him to rise very early in the morning. 

All the arrangements for his fishing trip had been 
made with Matchem earlier in the evening. At 
any hour he chose he was to let himself out of a small 
door which led into the gardens, and Matchem was 
to let him in again between six and half after. 

The last thing before getting into bed, he wound 
153 


THE KEY 


154 

up his watch, glancing at the dial as he placed it on 
the little table by the head of his bed. 

“Humph. That clock downstairs must be slow,” 
he thought. “It’s after twelve already, damn it. 
I’ll have to put in some good licks of sleep if Em to be 
fresh for my job in the morning.” 

He switched off the lights and jumped into bed 
expecting to be asleep in five minutes, as was his 
healthy wont. But somehow sleep would not come. 
Something—a thought undefined—kept knocking 
at his brain. Try hard as he would, he could not 
formulate nor dismiss it altogether. 

Restlessly he turned on his rumpled pillow. 
Faithfully he counted sheep, one by one, as they 
followed each other over an imaginary wall. One 
by one . . . One by one. . . . He would 

not think of the problem fate had sent him. 

He must be fresh for the work he had to do . 

in the morning. . . . One by one . . . One 

by one. . . . The sheep were leaping gro¬ 
tesquely. . . . The wall was growing higher 

and ever higher—purple and misty in a strange red, 
uncanny light. . . . One of the sheep turned 

toward him as it leaped the wall and he saw its face. 
With a start Peter woke to full consciousness. 

Somewhere in the house something had stirred. 
At first he could not locate the sound, and ears less 
sharply trained than his would have missed it alto¬ 
gether. But there it was again. The faint creaking 
of a board, the sound of a door stealthily opened. 


IN THE OLD DESK 


iS 5 

Peter was on the alert in an instant. Without 
the slightest noise, he slipped out of bed and across 
the room to his door. With practised hand he 
grasped the knob firmly and slowly, slowly turned 
it. Then he drew the door inward so carefully 
that it made no more sound than the passing of a 
shadow. 

The hall was pitch dark, but somewhere to his 
right someone was moving cautiously. Peter held 
his breath. . . . Away from him. Yes, the faint 

noise was growing ever fainter. Then it ceased alto¬ 
gether. Peter waited. 

From far down the hall came a slight metallic click, 
followed almost immediately by two tiny clicks close 
together. Someone had opened and closed a door. 
Without an instant’s hesitation Peter moved forward 
down the hall. Any unexplained movement in the 
dead of night in that house of mystery must not pass 
without investigation. 

He crept noiselessly along, keeping close to the 
wall. His fingers encountered the closed door of 
Curtis Fane’s room, passed on, felt the smooth panels 
of Gilbert Fane’s bedroom door, and still there was 
no sign to tell which door in the corridor had been 
opened and closed. 

There was only one more door on that side of the 
hall. Just at the head of the staircase and around 
the bend, Peter came upon it—the door leading to 
the sitting room of the dead owner of the house. 
Along the sill of this door there was a faint gleam, not 


THE KEY 


156 

of light, but of a less darkness than the almost palpa¬ 
ble blackness of the hall. 

Peter stood very still and listened. Someone was 
moving inside, very cautiously, very quietly. Peter 
felt he would give almost anything to know the mean¬ 
ing of these almost imperceptible sounds. Who, at 
this unearthly hour, would surreptitiously venture 
into this tenantless room, when its rightful tenant 
was lying cold and still in the bedroom adjoining? 
What object had this nocturnal visitant? 

Not to betray himself and yet to find out, was 
Clancy’s thought. But how? 'The door was tight- 
shut. It would be too risky to try opening it at such 
close quarters, but the desire to do so was so strong 
that almost against his will his hand raised itself and 
touched the panel. To his immense surprise and 
satisfaction the door moved a hair’s-breadth inward. 
Then he remembered the slight click, click he had 
heard when the door was closed and realized that the 
double sound meant that the latch had slipped. 

Cautiously, then, inch by inch, he pushed it farther 
ajar. Now he could see a heavy voluminous curtain 
drawn partly across the opening. Behind it part 
of the room was revealed in a faint reflected light. 
He could not see the invader but he could hear a 
slight sliding sound and then the soft rustle of paper. 

Since his luck had favoured him so far, Peter deter¬ 
mined to test it further. Cautiously advancing one 
bare foot, he threw his weight upon it, and turning his 
broad shoulders sidewise, slipped inside the door. 


IN THE OLD DESK 


157 

His next move was to pull the heavy curtain a little 
way out from the wall, being careful not to disturb 
the metal rings by which it was hung. By doing 
this he could see that across the corner of the room, 
immediately at his right, there stood a long, heavy 
couch or settle furnished with leather cushions and 
having broad arms, and a shelf running along the 
back wide enough to hold a reading lamp and books. 
The corner was dark and the settle formed an ideal 
ambush. 

Without pause Peter dropped to the floor and slid 
like a snake through the narrow opening between 
the settle and the wall. His luck held, for the back 
of the couch was composed of broad wooden slats 
and the four cushions resting against it did not en¬ 
tirely fill the space. Near the centre, the opening 
between the cushions and between the slats coin¬ 
cided, and there was a clear view of the greater part 
of the room. 

Some instinct had more or less prepared him to see 
the person who was thus revealed standing before a 
desk, between the windows on the far side of the room. 
Curtis Fane. He had suspected that it might be 
Curtis Fane, but what was he doing? And why had 
he come here at this hour? 

The man’s back was toward Peter, and he could 
not see his hands. There was only one light in the 
room, a small shaded desk lamp which threw its rays 
downward on the open desk before which Fane stood, 
his figure silhouetted against the light. He was 


THE KEY 


158 

leaning forward and by the movement of his arm and 
the sound which accompanied it Peter made sure 
that he had pulled one of the small drawers com¬ 
pletely out of its recess and placed it on the let-down 
leaf of the antique desk. 

A slight shifting of the body, and Fane’s right 
hand came into view, looking long and white in the 
spot of brilliant illumination. The hand moved 
forward groping in the recess from which the drawer 
had been taken. There was a faint sliding noise 
as the hand was drawn inward toward the body, and 
Peter saw the corner of a small narrow drawer. 

A muttered exclamation from Fane—and his whole 
body suddenly stiffened. His head turned slowly 
toward the door. 

Peter was not alarmed for himself. His quick ear 
had detected a movement in the hall before Fane 
heard it. Peter was so completely concealed by the 
shadow of the big settle that he had little fear of 
being observed. He maintained his cramped posi¬ 
tion without moving a muscle and with clear brain 
he awaited developments, though his heart was 
leaping with excitement. 

He saw Fane’s hand drop swiftly into his dressing- 
gown pocket and come out again holding what ap¬ 
peared to be some folded sheets of white note-paper. 
Like lightning, he slid the papers out of sight in the 
little secret drawer and almost with the same gesture 
slid the drawer back into its place and the other 
drawer in front of it. 


IN THE OLD DESK 


i 59 

The soft footfall in the passage had reached the 
door. It stopped for an instant. Then there was 
a quick, low exclamation. 

“Curtis! What are you doing here?” 

“I might ask the same of you, Denise,” said Fane, 
coolly. “Why are you out of bed at this time of the 
night, dear girl? Couldn’t you sleep, either?” He 
spoke quietly, with half-veiled tenderness. 

“No, Curt, I couldn’t.” She had advanced part 
way across the room and Peter could see her now, a 
dim, slender shape, swaying a little on her feet. A 
filmy white robe edged with black fur was drawn 
close about her. Her smooth dark hair fell in a 
heavy braid down her back. Her face, even in the 
dim light, was very pale. “The will.” She spoke 
again in a low tone. “It came to me just now in a 
flash that it might be here—in the old desk. Tom 
thought it would certainly be in the tower—and it 

only just occurred to me-” She paused, and 

Peter could see that she was looking intently at her 
brother-in-law. 

“Odd,” said Curtis, returning the look. “I 
thought of it, too, just a few minutes ago. I woke 
out of a sound sleep, as if someone had spoken to 
me. I’ve been looking, but I’ve found nothing so 
far. We might as well go through it together, now 
you’re here. We’ll both sleep better if we make 
sure. Poor girl,” he added, gently, as Denise came 
toward him, and started to place an arm about her 
shoulders. 



i6o 


THE KEY 


She shrank away from him with a quick glance at 
the closed bedroom door. Fane’s eyes followed hers 
and his arm dropped to his side. 

“Come,” he said, in a slightly altered tone, “let’s 
get through with this as quickly as we can. You 
ought to be getting some rest.” He placed a chair 
for her near the desk and the girl dropped into it. 

There were four visible drawers in the desk. One 
by one, he drew them out and laid them in her lap. 
Together they went carefully through the contents 
of each. Peter could see it all plainly; could study 
the girl’s face which was turned full toward him, 
could study the face of the man though it was seen 
mostly in profile. And he drew a swift conclusion 
from the expression of each, a conclusion which was 
afterward verified. 

No word was spoken between them for several 
moments. There was no sound to be heard but the 
rustle of papers passing through hurried fingers. 
When the fourth drawer had been examined and re¬ 
turned to its place, Fane spoke: 

“Nothing,” he said, slowly. “It seems we were 
both wrong. There is nothing here.” 

Denise drooped in her chair. Her eyes held in 
their depths an odd, veiled look. She moved her 
hands, palm upward, from her lap. 

“And yet, I was sure, when I came here,” she said, 

wearily. “So very sure I would find-” Her 

gaze, which had been bent on the floor, lifted to the 
man’s face and fell again. “I want to sit here 


IN THE OLD DESK 161 

quietly, and think, Curtis,” she went on. “I have a 
feeling—I can't explain it. . . .” 

“You want me to leave you here alone?” asked 
Fane. “You don't mean-” 

“Yes, Curt. Go to bed and let me think it out.” 

It was a strange request. Fane glanced at her 
sharply, hesitated, and then seemed to make up his 
mind. 

“You won’t stay here long, dear, will you?” he 
said. “It’s very late and you ought to be asleep. 
Promise me you won't stay long.” 

“I promise,” she replied, steadily. “If nothing 
comes to me within half an hour”—she glanced 
at the clock on the mantel—“I'll go back to my 
room.” 

“And to sleep,” said Fane, gently. “To sleep, I 
hope. You mustn't worry, Denise.” He bent and 
lifted her hand to his lips. The hand fell back limply 
in her lap. She shook her head sadly and wished 
him “Good-night.” 

“Good-night, Denise,” he said with feeling, and 
went out and closed the door. 

Peter, in his place of hiding, eased his cramped 
position as much as possible—and waited a moment 
—two. The tick of the clock sounded loud in the 
utter stillness, but before it clicked again the girl 
sprang into life. All the lassitude was gone from the 
lithe, graceful figure. With swift, sure step she 
crossed the room, passing close to Peter, pushed 
hard against the door and locked it. He heard a 


i 6 z THE KEY 

little gasping intake of breath as she went quickly 
back to the desk. 

“He didn’t know/’ she whispered to herself. “If 
it’s there . . .” The hurried thought of a mind 

over-wrought fell in disjointed sentences from her 
pale lips. “If I can know the worst before any 
one . . . O, God! if he’s taken out his spite on 

Stuart and me and left a will disinher . . .” 

The word died away, unfinished. She had pulled 
out the masking drawer and the secret one back of it. 
With a choking sigh she sank into a chair. Peter 
could see a stiff, folded gray-blue document in her 
hand. 

She held it a moment before she could summon 
courage to open it. Then, with her fine jaw close set 
and her head lifted, she spread it out beneath the 
light. Her straight black brows drew together as 
she swiftly read down one page, and the next. It 
was very short. Only two pages. It took scarcely 
more than a moment to read it, but in that moment 
her face seemed to have aged a year. 

“Everything to Curtis,” she whispered, in a blank, 
monotonous tone. “Everything to Curtis. Not 
even a mention of Stuart—or me. How could 
he . . . How could even he be so cruel ? . . . 

Penniless- My little boy! My dear little-” 

She sat for a long time staring at the paper in her 
lap. 

“Horrible to contest it,” she muttered. “Curtis 
would fight for it . . . And, after all, it was 




IN THE OLD DESK 


163 

Gilbert’s, to do with as he wished. . . . If it 
weren’t for Stuart, I could bear the loss—the 
slight-” 

She drew herself together suddenly, and rising, 
tall and proud, she moved to the desk. With a 
bitter gesture she started to put the will back where 
she had found it. Then Peter saw her bend down and 
look intently at something in the little secret drawer. 

Her figure held rigid for a second. She put the 
will down on the desk, resting her right hand on it, 
with her left she took up several folded sheets of note- 
paper, which rustled loudly in the stillness as she 
turned them. 

It appeared to Peter to be a long letter which she 
read through and through again. At the end she 
lifted her shoulders and pushed her hand up through 
her thick hair in a wild feverish gesture. 

“Couldn’t he leave me one decent thought of 
him?” Peter could just distinguish the words. 
“Margaret Stacy . . . His little Margie!” The 

tone was bitter beyond compare. “ September 29th,” 
—she was looking again at the letter—“only the 
day before. . . . O, God! how can I bear the 

shame. . . . Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert! . . . And 
this—this, too.” 

She picked up the will and held it and the letter, 
one in each hand. Turning, she leaned against the 
desk for support. 

Peter could see her face plainly now. Ravaged, it 
was, and filled with painful excitement. She looked 



THE KEY 


164 

down first at one paper and then at the other. Bitter 
anger, the fierce anger of a proud woman outraged, 
swept across her undefended face. Then her ex¬ 
pression grew suddenly cold and still. She raised 
her hands and brought them together as if to tear 
both papers across. A look of uncertainty came into 
her eyes and she let her hands fall at her sides. 

“To destroy a will,” Peter heard her say. “It’s a 
crime. I know it’s a crime. . . . But Stuart! 

Oh, dear God, would it be so wrong? What does 
Gilbert deserve from me? And the law would give 
us . . 

Her hands stopped trembling. Her tall figure 
straightened. A look of decision came into her face. 
She put the secret drawer back into its place, pushed 
the other drawer in, in front of it, picked up the letter 
and the will and hid them in the folds of her robe. 

Then she closed the lid of the desk quietly and 
turned out the light. Peter heard her move softly 
across the room. The door closed. He was alone. 


CHAPTER XVII 

Peter Clancy Goes Fishing 

TN SPITE of the fact that he had been thrillingly 
awake most of the previous night, at five o’clock 
on the following morning Peter awoke with the pre¬ 
cision of an alarm clock. Long training had enabled 
him to “set” his consciousness on a definite hour, 
and at that hour full consciousness returned to him. 

Misty dawn was graying the east as he arose and 
dressed himself hurriedly, and it was scarcely full day 
when, completely equipped for the work in hand, he 
stole noiselessly through the silent house and out at 
the garden door. 

Dank mist rose from the pool in the formal garden 
and followed the course of the small stream which 
flowed through it, wavering ghost-like in the cold 
gray light. Across the lawns and into the sheltering 
wood Peter sped; down through the dull glow of wet 
maples, rustling through the early fall of leaves. A 
turn of the downward path and, still and dark, there 
lay before him the shadowed waters of the quarry 
pool. 

Passing clear of the maze of footprints he had noted 
the afternoon before, he went directly to the railing 
165 


THE KEY 


166 

which guarded the path and leaped over it. Select¬ 
ing a spot about midway of its length, where a small 
promontory extended out into the dark water, he 
unslung a large creel from his shoulder, and rapidly 
prepared his incongruous tackle. He set the big reel 
on the heavy surf rod, and ran the line, bending on to 
the end a spreader furnished with three heavy gang- 
hooks. To the centre of the spreader he attached 
a sinker, allowing it to hang a little lower than the 
hooks. 

The thought of the absurdity of his appearance, 
brought a grim smile to his lip as he stood up and I 
made his first cast out into the centre of the misty 
pool, in whose stagnant waters no fish could possibly 
exist. And yet there was the angler’s eagerness in his 
keen blue eyes as he cautiously reeled in his line. 

Catching, and coming clear, the unseen sinker 
dragged slowly in along the bottom of the pool. He 
lifted the point of his rod, and drawing the tackle out 
of the water cast again and yet again, methodically 
covering the little pond. Once and again he was 
caught in the weeds and with difficulty recovered his 
tackle. 

Day was coming on, a wet, drizzly day, with cold, 
sighing winds. Mist clung to the dank branches of 
the trees and the water reflected wanly the dull reds 
and yellows of the quarried cliff's, but Peter did not 
heed the damp and cold, so intent was he upon the 
work in hand. 

Another cast, far over to the left. The indrawn 


PETER CLANCY GOES FISHING 167 

hooks along the bottom caught on something. 
Caught and held. Peter's heart gave a plunge, and 
he manipulated his tackle with all the skill at his 
command. Lifting the rod and line, he pulled in 
slowly, carefully. Something was coming away. 
He could feel a weight other than the weight of the 
sinker. The hooks were holding, the thing was com¬ 
ing toward him. Something heavy, but not so 
heavy as to bend the stout rod. Keeping just enough 
tension on the rod to raise the object from the bot¬ 
tom, he drew it slowly in. At last he could see it. 
His heart dropped down to its normal beat, and he 
eyed the object in the shallow water with disgust. 
It was a huge, almost disintegrated pair of heavily 
boned corsets. 

“Good lord," said Peter half aloud. “Look as if 
they might have once belonged to some stylish dino¬ 
saur. No affecting the debutante slouch in a rig like 
that. Back to the woods for you," he added, vindic¬ 
tively, as he freed the obsolete sartorial accessory and 
hurled it back into the bushes. 

“All isn't fish that comes to my net, damn it! Now 
for another try." 

Straightening out his tackle he cast once more, this 
time farther to the right. Patiently, intently, he 
combed the pool, each time marking a place on the 
opposite margin and casting toward it but not allow¬ 
ing his hooks to fall far beyond the middle. 

“Even a baseball pitcher couldn't throw a heavy 
stone much farther than that," he considered, “and 


THE KEY 


168 

the job’s going to be hard enough without placing ’em 
farther out than necessary. My eye! It’s taking 
longer than I thought,” glancing at his watch. “I 
don’t want any one to see me with this idiotic combi¬ 
nation of a surf rod and a creel. That old sport, 
Harry Carlisle, would think Td lost my mind if he 
could risk an eye on me just about now.” He lined 
out another cast. “Matchem says none of the 
servants will be about before seven, but just the 

same- Holy suffering shoe-strings.” Peter’s 

eyes became suddenly alight and from that point on 
his mind was entirely occupied in guiding his hands. 

A taut line to the very centre of the pool. Peter 
dropped the tip of his rod to bring it in line, and 
turned the handle of the reel slowly. There was a 
sickening moment of suspense in which he almost 
made up his mind that he was caught on the bottom. 
A little spray of drops fell from the line under the 
vibrant tension. Then, all at once, the line began to 
run home, slowly, as if impeded by a heavy weight. 
Again Peter raised the tip to lift the object clear of 
the bottom. The stout rod curved a little under the 
strain, but he could wind the reel now without too 
much difficulty. 

Unseen in the green-black water, the “fish” he was 
playing, with every ounce of skill he possessed, was 
coming slowly toward him. Never had he angled 
more sincerely for silver salmon or rainbow trout. 
Never had he bent above clicking reel with so stern 
an expression on his face. 


PETER CLANCY GOES FISHING 169 

The object beneath the green scum struck the 
upward shelving rock of the hither margin. Peter 
reeled in furiously now in his excitement, stepping 
backward and lowering the tip again to ease the 
strain. In and upward it came, the hidden prize. 
Now he could see a shapeless, gray-blue something, 
drawing slowly up through the shallows. Now he 
could distinguish it quite clearly, and, with a mut¬ 
tered burst of thankful profanity, he dropped the rod 
on the rocks and seized it with his hands. 

A pair of greasy blue-jeans overalls wrapped around 
something and tied with a stout bit of twine. So 
much Peter could see at a glance, as he placed his 
prize on the rocks and dropped beside it. Whipping 
out a knife, he cut the cord. The wet garment fell 
open—and a grim, slow grin spread itself across 
Clancy’s face. 

Inside, besides a small canvas tool-kit, was a pair 
of sneakers that had recently been white but were 
now sodden and streaked with grime. Peter turned 
the soles upward in his hands. The pattern on the 
rubber was scarcely worn at all, and the oval trade¬ 
mark of the maker in the hollow of the sole was 
practically untouched. 

“Goodyear rubber! Sold by the million and 
impossible to trace, of course/’ thought Peter. 
“Might easily have been bought in any one of a 
thousand places. . . . But here’s the point, 

Peter my lad. No matter where they were bought, 
here’s where they are found. . . . On a short 


THE KEY 


170 

cut leading from the Hall to Duncan Cameron’s 
farm. . . . Duncan Cameron’s farm. . . . 

Now I wonder if that is just a coincidence . . . 

or . . . well, anyway, it’s a short cut and the 

path easy to follow, even in the dark. 

“Now, think it out, old bean. . . . We start 

with a plumber from Tunbridge’s in Morrisville— 
whom Tunbridge never sent. . . . He was wear¬ 
ing clean white sneakers. . . . He came to re¬ 
pair something in Curtis Fane’s bathroom. . . . 

Nobody admits seeing him leave the house. . . . 

The boy, Henry, knew he was there, and James, 
too . . . and Fane. . . . Wait a minute. 

. . . James and Henry both say Fane was in his 
room—but I have only their word for that. Not too 
fast, Pete, not too fast. . . . 

“Then there was the down comfortable on the 
floor of the guest-room closet. That room, now 
occupied by Mr. Fletcher Kenyon, innocent old 
bloke, is next to Fane’s and you can get into it from 
Fane’s room without going into the hall . . . 

and that little piece of dried mud I found will fit this 
mark in the hollow of the sole, or my name’s Monta¬ 
gue Montmorency. . . . And the key of the 

closet was on the inside of the door. All clear as 
mud! But where does that get us?” 

He rose and, with the sneakers still in his hand, 
went over to look again at the footprints which had 
been the cause of his piscatorial venture. They were 
blurring a little in the dampness, but because they 


PETER CLANCY GOES FISHING 171 

were in a species of clayey silt which had hardened in 
the sun, they were still fairly plain. 

“I sure ‘can read your title clear/ but not to 
‘mansions in the sky/ far from it,” said Peter as he 
climbed over the railing and knelt down beside the 
low ledge of rock. “Fits to a hair's breadth/' he 
muttered, placing one of the sneakers to coincide 
with the one footprint over to his right, which showed 
more clearly than the rest. 

“It's all as plain as the nose on my face, and that's 
going some. . . . He came down the path this 

far, wearing sneakers. He sat down here, on this low 
rock, and changed to regular shoes. That's why 
the heels of the footprints are all toward the rock— 
and the prints of the smooth-soled shoes are on 
top. . . . He took off the plumber's rig and 

weighted it with that kit of tools and the sneakers, 
and sunk the whole outfit in a likely place, all ready 
to his mit. What could have been nicer? You're a 
pretty mean kind of a butter-in to spoil such a neat 
little plan, Pete. Might have lain there till kingdom 
come if you hadn't mixed in." 

He rose from his knees and slowly took down his 
rod, still thinking hard. 

“There’s one thing as sure as that you'll be called 
on your income-tax schedule, and that is that this 
fake plumber is on in this piece. Just how, I'm not 
exactly sure, but he's mixed up in it somehow, I'll bet 
my bottom dollar. A swell cracksman he may 
be. . . . But the tower door hadn't been tarn- 


172 THE KEY 

pered with, apparently. At least, Matchem says it 
was all right when he broke it in . . . and the 

key was on the inside. ... I saw that my¬ 
self . . . and the lock wasn’t injured—only the 

trim splintered. . . . 

“ There wasn’t anything stolen except the five 
hundred, or possibly a thousand dollars—in fifties. 
. . . And the strange guy that turned up that 

night at Regal’s garage—the chap that Regal told 
that queer story about—had nothing on him but new 
fifty-dollar bills. . . . But neither had Mat¬ 

chem—don’t lose sight of that, Pete. He says he 
cashed his salary check for the month at the same 
time he drew the money for Gilbert Fane’s payroll— 

that may be so, and would easily account for- 

H’m-m-m. Yes.” 

“Now go back to Regal. . . . He says that 

the fellow that he towed into Newark had'a long, 
narrow undershot jaw. ... So had O’Malley’s 
friend that tackled Curtis Fane in front of the 
Mohawk Hotel. . . . Same man I picked out at 

the inquest. Hard thing to disguise, that . . . 

A beard? Yes. A beard. . . . And Henry says 

the plumber had one—they don’t usually—don’t 
know why—doctors and artists-” 

For the last minute or two Peter had been carefully 
arranging his catch in the creel. The tools first, then 
the sneakers. Now he raised the sopping overalls 
and started to wring out the water. “Don’t want 
’em to drip all over the place,” he thought—and 


PETER CLANCY GOES FISHING 173 

stopped. His hand had come in contact with a 
disagreeable something which partly protruded from 
one of the capacious pockets. He drew it out, 
gingerly. It was a very well-made beard and mus¬ 
tache of dark hair. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


The Letter 


HE drizzling rain had ceased and the sky showed 



indications of a clearing day when Peter cau¬ 
tiously approached the garden door. It was only a 
little after six o’clock, but Tom Matchem was already 
there. The first faint streak of sun lit up his quaint 
serious face as he silently opened the door in answer 
to Peter’s prearranged signal. Somehow, Peter had 
known that he would be there, ready, “on the job,” 
dependable and steady as the ticking of a Benjamin 
Maud clock. 

“The ticking of a clock.” In a flash the insistent, 
undefined thought which had been at the back of 
Clancy’s mind when he had tried in vain to sleep on 
the preceding night came to the surface, clear and 
decisive. For an instant it threw all the other con¬ 
siderations out of court, so startling was the thought 
and the obvious deduction to be drawn from it, if his 
idea proved to be correct. Without a word of greet¬ 
ing to Matchem he astounded that long-suffering 
individual with a question so irrelevant as to seem 
almost insane. 

“Why doesn’t Mrs. Fane wear a watch ?” he asked, 


174 


THE LETTER 


i 75 

looking at Tom with startled eagerness, and as the 
other only gasped, he repeated, insistently, “Tell me, 
quick. Why doesn’t Mrs. Fane wear a watch?” 

Tom glanced at Clancy’s wet red hair and flushed 
excited face, and shook his head. 

“I can’t make you out, Clancy,” he said. They 
both spoke in low, guarded tones. “You do spring 
the most unexplainable--” 

“Never mind,” grinned Peter. “She doesn’t wear 
one. Why?” 

“But she does, ordinarily,” objected Tom, with a 
puzzled frown. Then on a sudden recollection—“I 
know! Her watch is out of order and she sent it in 
to Marcus to be repaired one day last week. That’s 
the reason-” 

Peter gave him an exultant slap on the shoulder. 
“I guessed it,” he said. “I guessed it! And she has 
no clock in her room.” 

“For the love of Heaven, what are you driving at, 
Clancy?” 

“Ticking of a clock bothers her at night, or some¬ 
thing,” insisted Peter. “Isn’t it so?” 

“Good lord, yes! But how in the world- And 

why should you-” 

“Don’t you see?” said Peter, hurriedly. “Don’t 
you see? That clears up one point. And another 
thing—I’ll bet you anything you like that the clock 
in the tower room has stopped again—see? Can’t 
you dope out what that means? Think it over, old 
man. Think it over. And now, for the love of 




THE KEY 


176 

Mike, get rid of this junk for me, and take this creel 
up to my room, as is. There’s a good old scout.” 

In view of the sudden conclusion he had just 
reached—the certainty that in one instance Matchem 
had told the exact truth—the quick intuition that 
this involved his sincere and ingenuous action in 
regard to other details caused Peter’s distrust of 
Matchem to vanish as the dispersing mists of the 
morning, and for the first time he accepted him, in 
thought, as an unqualified ally. 

“I’ll show you my catch later,” he continued, 
rapidly. “It was a peach of a morning for fishing, 
and I got what I was after, thank God. Now I must 
do a little telephoning before the house is astir.” 
He stripped off the old mackintosh Tom had lent 
him, and threw it over its owner’s unresisting arm. 
He grinned again at Tom’s bewilderment and gave 
him a gentle push. “Get along, old man, I’ve got a 
lot to do. Hide the creel in my closet and lock the 
door. Roll up the key in one of the pairs of socks 
you’ll find in the second drawer of the bureau. I’m 
afraid I won’t be able to discuss things with you be¬ 
fore breakfast, but I’ll go up to my room right after¬ 
ward and you slip up there as soon as you can get 
away without attracting attention. Now beat it!” 

With a face in which was blended an odd mixture 
of emotions, Matchem followed Clancy with his eyes 
until the detective, grinning and nodding confidently, 
closed the door of the telephone room. Then, with 
the soft step of stockinged feet, Tom went swiftly up 


THE LETTER 


177 

the stairs, bearing the ill-assorted tackle Clancy had 
requisitioned. 

If his heart was still full of anxiety about his 
cousin, Curtis, there was a distinct lightening of 
another, scarcely acknowledged, load. Clancy’s 
apparently absurd questions, just propounded, had 
started a train of thought—a possible explanation. 
If it could be proved that there was no collusion be¬ 
tween Denise and Curtis on the matter of time- 

He had felt quite sure of her innocence in each small¬ 
est detail, but deep in his heart had been a grinding 
fear that Clancy might draw a damaging conclusion 
from the fact that she as well as Curtis had made an 
inaccurate statement as to the time they had last 
seen Gilbert alive—a fact which he, himself, had in¬ 
advertently called to Clancy’s attention. He had 
been faithfully discounting that possibility whenever 
its snake-like head made its appearance. And 
now- 

“If I’m right. O God! If I’m only right about 
the way it happened,” he thought, prayerfully, as he 
disposed the creel and key according to Clancy’s 
instructions. “It seems wild, but there was evi¬ 
dence. . . . The expression on poor Gilbert’s 

face . . . The dagger . . . Oh, I pray 

God . . ” 

In the meantime, Peter was carrying on a long, 
curiously involved conversation over the telephone. 

He seemed pleased with the report that his aunt 



THE KEY 


178 

had rested quietly at the Essex Hotel in Morrisville 
and that she showed no indication of uneasiness. He 
was assured that Nurse Rawlins could be trusted not 
to lose sight of her. There followed a long statement 
on Peter's part which was utterly unintelligible to the 
sleepy operator who was listening in for the purpose 
of keeping awake till her relief came. There was 
something about early morning fishing, followed by a 
discussion of the advisability of calling in the local 
practitioners for the benefit of the aunt alluded to in 
the first part of the conversation. That was all the 
operator could gather and, with a yawn, she cut out, 
making a little click in Peter's ear which, from long 
experience, he rightly interpreted. After that his 
instructions were more definite and less guarded. 

“All clear?" he said at last. 

“All clear," came back O'Malley's gruff voice over 
the wire. “Get me here, any time you want me. I’ll 
let Rawlins do the floating 'round, if any, and if 
there's any trouble, I'll arrange for her to get all the 
local help needed. So long." 

“So long, Uncle," replied Peter, cheerfully, and 
hung up the receiver. 

Some little time later, bathed, shaved, and care¬ 
fully dressed, Mr. Fletcher Kenyon appeared at the 
breakfast table. If he was surprised at seeing the 
mistress of the house already there, behind the coffee 
urn, he gave no sign. He greeted her ceremoniously, 
with a shy, old-fashioned courtesy that would not 
have failed in its appeal if Denise Fane had not been 


THE LETTER 


179 

too much preoccupied to note particularly the queer, 
silent man whose work on the collection of manu¬ 
scripts was now, as he stated, nearly over. 

“It has taken me longer than I thought, or I 
wouldn’t have intruded,” he murmured, apologeti¬ 
cally. “A day or so at the most ought to see the 
matter through. I could leave it now and come 

back--” It was a tentative remark. Realizing 

this, Denise roused herself to reply. 

“There is no reason to disturb you, Mr. Kenyon,” 
she said, considerately. “We appreciate, very much, 
what you have done and are doing, and will be glad 
to have you stay and finish, if it suits your con¬ 
venience.” 

Mr. Fletcher Kenyon bowed and continued his 
breakfast, for which he seemed to have a good appe¬ 
tite, in silence. 

There was little conversation at the table. Curtis 
Fane did not appear, and Matchem spoke but little. 
Peter watched Denise Fane covertly. Her clear 
pallor was not especially accentuated, but there were 
deep blue shadows below her wide gray eyes which 
denoted sleepless weariness. There was, however, a 
proud determination in the carriage of her small dark 
head. Whatever the nature of her discovery in the 
eerie hours of the preceding night, Peter concluded, 
she had decided how to act and would carry through 
her purpose. 

Somehow he must find out the exact contents of 
those papers that she had taken from that little 


i8o 


THE KEY 


secret drawer. He had a shrewd suspicion concern¬ 
ing them, a suspicion involving much. So important 
did he feel it to be that he had discussed with himself 
over and over the advisability of coming out in the 
open as far as she was concerned. If there was no 
other way- 

She had risen from an almost untasted breakfast 
and was speaking to Matchem. Peter heard her say, 

“In my room. I want to consult you-” and his 

hopes rose as Matchem immediately followed her 
from the room. 

He was not greatly surprised, about half an hour 
later, when someone knocked hurriedly at his bed¬ 
room door and, upon opening it, to find Tom on the 
threshold. The expression of anger and concern in 
Matchem’s face was what he had expected, but he 
was not prepared in detail for the disclosure which 
followed. 

Hastily closing and locking the door, Tom ad¬ 
vanced into the room. His jaw was set and his mild 
eyes blazing. 

“See here, Clancy,” he said in a tone of restrained 
fury. “This seems almost too much, and I don’t 

know what to do. I knew Gilbert was-Oh, my 

God! I can scarcely believe it even now! Some¬ 
thing has got to be done to keep this damned woman 
quiet. Denise. ... It can’t be! We must 
prevent it somehow. You’re the only man sane 
enough and clever enough-” 

He broke off and stamped his foot on the floor. 


THE LETTER 


181 


“This is no good, Matchem,” said Peter, rising and 
placing a firm hand on the other’s shoulder. “You 
don’t get anywhere by letting go. You’ve held hard 
so far. Keep it up. Get a grip on yourself. Sit 
down here quietly—and show me the letter!” 

Tom gave him a startled look. 

“How did you know?” he asked as he sank obedi¬ 
ently into a chair. “Clancy, how could you 
possibly-” 

“Never mind that,” said Peter with a quick 
gesture of his hand as if he brushed something away. 
“It’s a letter from Margaret Stacy. You’d better 
let me see it at once.” 

With a dazed and wondering expression, Tom put 
his hand into an inner breast pocket and drew forth 
the folded sheets of note-paper which Peter had al¬ 
ready seen from a most unsatisfactory distance on 
the previous night. 

“I told Denise that I must have time to think 
what was best to do.” Matchem spoke uncertainly. 
“I don’t know whether I ought-” 

“No other way,” said Peter, decisively. “There’s 
more involved than perhaps either you or Mrs. Fane 
realizes. This is no time for half-confidences, Mat¬ 
chem. You must see that for yourself. Either give 
me the whole dope, or let me quit and clear out.” 
Peter spoke in no uncertain terms, but it would have 
been the most maddening moment of his life if he had 
been taken at his word. As Tom still paused un¬ 
certainly, Peter, with all the charm of his sincere 


THE KEY 


,182 

! 

voice and manner, added, persuasively: “You can 
trust me, Matchem. Fm no trouble-maker. Fll 
kill a snake wherever I find one—and no loss to any¬ 
body. But I don't go into the laundry business for 
anybody’s dirty linen. Take it from me. . . . 

And, old man, I already know too much not to be put 
wise to the rest. I can find out what’s in that letter 
of Margaret Stacy’s-” 

“Clancy, what in hell do you know about this 
infernal woman?” asked Tom, looking down at the 
letter with a frown, and as Peter remained silent, 
Tom drew a sharp sigh and abruptly placed it in 
Peter’s hand. “Take it,” he said, “and tell me 
what to do. I believe you’re all to the good, Clancy, 
and I’ll be guided by you—except that I can’t do any¬ 
thing that Denise-” 

Peter was scarcely listening. He had opened the 
folded sheets the instant Tom relinquished them. 
Now, swiftly and silently, he was mastering their 
contents. 

“You’ve read this,” he said, when he had finished 
the last of the closely written pages. 

“I read it hastily,” Tom replied. “I was so furi¬ 
ous that this—that Denise should have to face this 
on top of all the rest-” 

“Better read it over again quietly then,” said 
Peter, placing the letter on the table which stood 
between them, so that they both could see it. “There 
are some curious things about it—for instance, why 
was this bit torn off the top of the first sheet?” 



THE LETTER 


183 


“I don’t know,” said Tom. “Do you?” 

“I think I could make a guess,” answered Peter, 
frowning, with narrowed eyes. “But come, let’s 
read it again.” 

In a low, pondering tone, half-aloud, Peter read: 

Dear old Gilbert, 

Well, here’s the bad penny turning up again, and worse luck, 
not another penny to rub up against. It’s lonely, old dear, to be 
the only penny anywhere in sight, and I know you never wanted 
me to be lonely. Oh, the good old days! We were happy to¬ 
gether then, weren’t we? Our little flat was the best place I’ve 
ever been and I know you were crazy about it, too. Well, that’s 
over, old dear, long ago, and no hard feeling and you sure did me 
right and came across handsome. I’ll always say so. And I’ve 
stuck to my end of the bargain so far. You’ve got to hand that 
to me. But now, old bean, I’ve come to the end of my rope and 
you’ll have to fix it to finance me again for old times’ sake. Why 
not make it worth my while this one old time so I won’t have 
to ask you again ? Believe me I’ve got my own pride and hate to 
keep asking any man for the wherewithal, but I’ve got to have a 
couple of hundred right away. I’ve stuck ’em up here until the 
clerk’s eye’s green whenever I pass the desk. And then I’ll need 
a lot more to go on with. Times are awful hard for me. I ain’t 
as good a looker as I was once, I got to admit it, Gil, and you 
know how that hurts, or you would have known once when you 
used to say I was the prettiest girl ever seen at the Follies. I 
guess I’ve got soft these last years when I haven’t had to work 
and I can’t stand the idea of being sworn at by the ballet master, 
besides I’ve lost my figure a good deal, Gil, not so bad in clothes 
but too much for tights, you understand. So I’m not going 
back to be turned down, maybe, and I’m not going on the street 
while I’ve got a friend like you, old dear. I’ve got some things 
I’ve saved. I always was a careful little thing, you know. I’d 
hate to have to double-cross you, and I know you’re too much of 
a gentleman to make me do it. But if I showed some things to 
your wife—divorce isn’t pleasant—and alimony’s awful ex- 


THE KEY 


184 

pensive—a lot more than I’ll cost you. How about it, old chap? 
I’ll give up everything I’ve got on you and sign a paper saying 
there wasn’t nothing to it if you’ll give me $20,000. I’ve found 
out I can buy what the guy called an annuity with that and not 
have to worry, or worry anybody any more. 

Be a good scout and come across. I don’t want to do any¬ 
thing mean, honest I don’t, but I may have to if you throw me 
down. 

I’ll wait till Oct. 5th to hear from you, and if I don’t, I’ll take 
a trip out to Bernard Ridge, where I’ve never been yet according 
to our agreement. So help me God, I’ve kept it so far. 

Don’t make things hard for me, for old times’ sake. Lovingly 

Your little Margie. 


And in parentheses, was added: 

(Margaret Stacy, you know, old dear—in case you’ve had so 
many since, you don’t remember poor little me.) 

At the very bottom of the last page was the date, 
September 29, 192—. 

“The day before he—died,” said Tom, fatefully. 

“The very day before he was-” 

“Murdered,” finished Peter, gravely. “It must 
have been received here on the very day of his death.” 



CHAPTER XIX 


Clancy Listens In 


ND this is the third of October,” said Tom, 



^ beating his clenched fist on the obnoxious letter. 
“She says she’ll wait until the fifth. Only two days, 
Clancy. Do you realize it? If the woman should 
come here and try to see Denise! God! And we don’t 
even know where she is. There’s no address-” 

“No,” agreed Peter, partly closing one eye very 
deliberately. “But there was an address. Some¬ 
one tore it off the top of the first sheet. Can you 
imagine why, Matchem?” 

“No,” said Tom, shaking his head wearily. “Can 
you?” 

“I could give you a pretty swift guess,” Peter re¬ 
plied with a grin that had no mirth in it, “but if you 
don’t mind, I’ll tell you that later. Now we’ll have 
to get busy with Margaret Stacy if we don’t want 
beans spilled all over the shop. I’m afraid it will be 
necessary to spend some money.” 

“Oh, money!” interrupted Tom. “What does 
that matter? I have some of my own, and Denise 

will do anything- But how are we going to find 

this—this-” 


i8S 


THE KEY 


186 

“Vamp,” supplied Peter, coolly. “As far as I can 
see, there’s just oneway. I think there’s only one possi¬ 
ble person that Mr. Gilbert Fane might have con¬ 
fided in—his brother Curtis.” He looked at Tom 
warily, noting the effect of his words. 

“Curtis? Good God! Would any man confide 
this sort of thing even to a brother?” 

Peter could scarcely restrain a smile at Matchem’s 
lack of knowledge of men. He nodded confidently. 

“I think it more than likely,” he said. “Curtis 
(pardon my speaking of your cousins by their given 
names. Saves time.) Curtis,” he repeated, “may 
have found the thing out, perhaps. At any rate, he’s 
our best bet. You’d better see him at once. The 
funeral is at four this afternoon. He’ll have time 
to run into town.” 

“You think she’s in New York, then?” Tom 
queried. 

“Pretty sure to be,” said Peter, quickly. Not 
being willing as yet to let Tom know that he was 
already advised of the Stacy woman’s whereabouts, 
he hastily covered his slip. “That kind doesn’t get 
far from the lights of Broadway. I have a hunch 
that Curtis will know how to reach her. He may 
even know the woman. Anyhow, my advice would 
be to let him handle the matter of buying her off. 
I don’t believe she’d have the nerve to come down 
here and make trouble right away, after what’s 
happened. But you never can tell. She may be 
desperate enough to try anything. It would never 


CLANCY LISTENS IN 187 

do for Mrs. Fane to see her. Curtis is our best 
bet.” 

Tom nodded in silent acquiescence, and Peter con¬ 
tinued rapidly: 

“Here’s what I want you to do. Get a check for 
the whole amount—twenty thousand dollars, it is— 
from Mrs. Fane. You can manage that?” 

Tom nodded again. 

“All right. Then get hold of Curtis and between 
you draw up a paper for the woman to sign. It 
ought to read something like this”—and Peter 
rapidly dictated a clear and binding agreement the 
stipulations of which Tom noted in a small memoran¬ 
dum book. “Now there’s one thing more. I want 
to hear what he says without being seen. Don’t ask 
me why, now, but do what I say. I have a good 
reason for asking this. I know you don’t like it, 
and I’m not crazy about the job myself, but it’s 
necessary. There’s a closet in your room, of course?” 

“Yes,” said Tom, frowning. “But I wish-” 

“So do I,” said Peter. “Only this is no case for 
gloves. You must make up your mind, here and 
now, my friend,” he spoke with earnest commiser¬ 
ation, “that whatever your cousin Curtis is, he’s 
no angel. He hasn’t told all he knows by a damn 
sight, and it’s up to us to find out the facts, by hook 
or by crook. Forget everything except that we 
want to protect Mrs. Fane just as far as it is possible. 
And this is the best way. Take my word for it.” 

He rose, and pushed the offensive letter into Tom’s 


188 THE KEY 

hand. He caught Tom by the arm and lifting him to 
his feet, urged him toward the door. 

“Send for Curtis to come to your room. Tell him 
it’s urgent. He’ll come quickly enough. And just 
forget about me.” 

Reluctantly Tom followed Peter’s insistent coun¬ 
sel. 

A few minutes later, ensconced in Matchem’s 
closet, with the door open not more than a hair’s- 
breadth, Peter heard Matchem come hastily into his 
room. Almost immediately there was a knock on 
the door and Curtis Fane said: 

“You want to see me, Tom?” 

Peter noted the eagerness of the tone and nodded 
confidently to himself. With his ear glued to the 
crack of the door, he listened while Tom produced 
the letter and explained his difficulty to his cousin. 

“We don’t know where to reach the damned 
woman, Curt,” Tom said, miserably. “And there’s 
so little time. We must prevent her from coming 
here at all costs.” 

“It’s an outrage! An outrage!” Curtis appeared 
very angry. “But I agree with you, Tom. She 
must not come here. Luckily I can help poor Denise, 
and I thank God for it. I know where Margaret 
Stacy is. Gilbert told me about the letter, and I 
tried to find it, but I didn’t know where he put it. 
Thought it might have been destroyed. I went to 
see the Stacy woman yesterday-” 

At this frank admission Peter’s eyebrows went up 



CLANCY LISTENS IN 


189 

toward his red hair. Could he be mistaken? Was 
Curtis, after all, simply trying to protect his brother's 
name? With lightning-like rapidity he began re¬ 
adjusting his mental concepts. There must be no 
error in so vital a matter. Every possible theory 
must be subject to change without notice, like a rail¬ 
road time table. 

He listened with strained attention. Curtis was 
saying: 

“You see, Tom, Gilbert and I had been talking 
this thing over. It was—it was the last thing we 
ever talked about. I was for buying her off—would 
have done it on my own if I'd had the money. Of 
course, I didn't have it—not enough, anyway—but I 
went to see her and gave her nearly all I had. There 
was five hundred for that horse I wanted. Gilbert 
had just given it to me-" 

“That night?" asked Tom, quickly. 

“Yes." 

And Peter thought to himself, “Then that ac¬ 
counts for five hundred of the thousand that was 
missing from the cash drawer." Curtis continued: 

“Gilbert gave me five hundred and I turned that 
over to her—but she isn’t satisfied and will make 
trouble if-" 

“We mustn't let her, at any cost, damn her," said 
Tom, decisively. “We must scotch her as you would 
a snake." 

Rapidly and carefully, he proceeded to plan with 
Curtis their method of procedure. There was no 



THE KEY 


190 

hesitation or disagreement as to the end to be gained 
and the means of gaining it. The paper to be signed 
was carefully drawn up, and Peter, if desired, would 
have put his O. K. to the document which Tom read 
aloud as soon as it was finished. 

‘Til do the best I can with her,” Curtis assured his 
cousin. “Til try to make her take less, but I doubt 
if she will. I’ll cash the check and offer her only part 
of the money and see what she says. Perhaps—in 
the circumstances—for fear of being implicated in 
Gilbert’s—in Gilbert’s death—she may be satisfied 
with less.” 

“Oh, damn the money,” Tom broke out. “It’s 
mine, Curt. All I’ve got in the world, but I don’t 
give a rush. Give it to her and let her go to hell with 
it her own way.” 

“Denise—is she letting you do this?” There was 
surprise and the first note of uncertainty in Fane’s 
voice. 

“Denise knows nothing about business,” Tom 
replied, shortly. 

“And you don’t know much more, as far as that 
goes,” commented Fane with a little laugh. “It’s 
a good thing you two have me to manage Margie 
for you. I can see about where you’d get off, you 
old recluse, if you had to deal with a woman of that 
sort.” 

“Do you know her, Curt?” Tom asked, curiously. 

“Oh, it’s hardly what you call knowing her,” 
easily. “She was more or less public property, I 


CLANCY LISTENS IN 


191 

guess, some years ago, when she was getting her full 
share of glare from the white lights on Broadway.” 

“I never heard of the woman till this morning,” 
Tom remarked, with a movement of distaste, “but 
that’s only natural, I suppose. How soon do you 
think you can get back, Curt? I’ll be anxious to 
hear-” 

“I can catch the 11 :io from Morrisville,” said Fane, 
glancing at his wrist-watch, “and I ought to be able 
to get the two o’clock train back. Of course I must 
be back by four this afternoon. It would never do 
for me not to be—I mean—the funeral, of course. 
I must be back in time foc^hat. If I get the two 
o’clock from Hoboken . . . three . . . and 

fifteen or twenty minutes from Morrisville, at the 
most ... I ought to be here easily by three 
twenty. Have one of the closed cars meet that train, 
there’s a good fellow. Now, I’m off.” 

He crossed the room quickly and opened the door. 
Peter, hearing it close, was about to push open the 
closet door, when he caught his breath and swiftly 
and quietly drew it to again. Curtis Fane was stand¬ 
ing inside the door to the hall. He had turned back 
and Peter glimpsed an odd hesitation in his manner. 

“I forgot to ask you, Tom,” he said, “how Denise 
happened to come across this unlucky letter. Do 
you know?” 

“She found it in a hidden drawer of the old desk 
in Gilbert’s room,” Tom replied at once. 

“A hidden—you mean a secret drawer in that old 



THE KEY 


192 

desk? How strange,” said Curtis. “Did she find 
anything else? A secret drawer is always-” 

“Nothing else of importance, I suppose, or she’d 
have mentioned it,” Tom interrupted. “But you’d 
better hurry if you’re going to catch that 11 :io. Curt. 
You haven’t much time.” 

“So I haven’t,” Curtis agreed. “You’re right. 
I’ll do my best, old man, trust me.” 

The door opened and closed. This time he was 
gone. Peter waited a minute to make sure, then he 
came swiftly from his hiding place and caught Mat- 
chem by the arm. 

“Got a ’phone in your room?” he asked, hurriedly. 
“Good, I see it. Don’t stop an instant, but beat it 
down to the switchboard and cut off* all the ex¬ 
tensions in the house but this. You know how? 
Right!” He pushed Tom ^toward the door. “Give 
me a ring the second you get the board clear. Under¬ 
stand?” 

Things were moving with a rapidity which made 
Tom dizzy, but he found himself obeying unquestion- 
ingly the behests of the detective’s more agile mind. 
He left the room without a word, and a moment or 
two later the telephone at Peter’s elbow buzzed 
sharply. 

“Bet the old scout never even thinks of listening 
in,” thought Peter as he took down the receiver. A 
consideration which plainly showed how far his mind 
had travelled since his early moments of suspicion. 

Whether Matchem had thought of it or not, he 



CLANCY LISTENS IN 


193 

certainly could not have listened in for any consider¬ 
able period, for he was back in his room again before 
Peter had quite finished his hurried but concise tele¬ 
phone conversation. As he entered the room, he 
heard Clancy say: 

“I don't cafe how you do it, O'Malley. I'll leave 
it to you. But get her, see? Get her at any cost. 
Put the screws on all you like but get her!" Peter 
broke off to hold up his finger at Matchem. “ Don't 
go. 'S all right. Wait a minute." he said in parenthe¬ 
ses. “All right, O'Malley, I wasn't talking to you. 
You understand the whole situation, so do what you 
think best. Only, for the love of God, get her!" 

He hung up the receiver and turned toward Mat¬ 
chem. “I promised to show you my catch this 
morning," he said, with a friendly grin. “And I'll 
do it now, if you have the time. Come along to my 
room." 

Tom started to ask a question, but Peter stopped 
him with a wave of the hand. 

“I'm going to let you in on everything as fast as it 
comes across," he said. “At least as soon as I get 
one complete clue I'll put you wise. But there are a 
whole lot of queer things going on that I don't know 
exactly the why and the wherefore of myself, and 
until I do, don't ask me about'em. See? I hate to 
refuse to answer, and if you don't ask, I won't have 
to. Get me? Now come along and I'll show you 
something that I think’ll interest you." 

Acceding, perforce, to Clancy’s request, Tom 


THE KEY 


194 

followed the detective to his own room. There he 
watched eagerly while Peter locked his door and re¬ 
covered the closet key from its odd hiding place in a 
pair of tan silk socks. He could scarcely restrain his 
curiosity when Peter produced the creel and ex¬ 
plained where and how he had recovered its contents. 

“The plumber’s in it, or I’m a German.” Peter 
wagged his red head and screwed up his freckled 
nose. “This beard proves conclusively that he was 
a fake, all right, in spite of these tools and the con¬ 
vincing greasiness of these old overalls.” 

He shook out the garment for better display, and 
something fell from one of the pockets, and jingled to 
the floor. 

“Hell!” said Peter, and stooped to pick it up. 

It was a large shiny nickel key, and, in spite of the 
dampness of its hiding place, not yet stained with 
rust. 


CHAPTER XX 
The Key 


/^LANCY and Matchem gazed at each other in 
breathless silence. Peter was the first to speak. 

“How I missed it-” he muttered angrily to 

himself. “I thought I went through all the- 

Oh, here’s the little devil I missed! See, Matchem?” 
He had been hurriedly turning over the wrinkled and 
sodden blue-jeans. Now he held up the garment, 
allowing it to depend from one finger which was 
thrust into a narrow upright pocket in the back of 
the overalls. 

“Rotten piece of carelessness,” he berated himself 
as he dropped the garment to the floor, and turning 
hastily, caught the salvaged key from Matchem’s 
outstretched hand. 

“What are you-Clancy! You don’t think-” 

Tom’s voice was tense. 

“Yes, I do,” answered Peter as if the other had 
completed his question. “I don’t see what else it 
can possibly be.” He made a quick nervous gesture 
toward Matchem. “You’ve got it on you, haven’t 
you? Let me see the key to the tower. Quick!” 

Tom jammed his hand into his trousers pocket and 
195 




THE KEY 


196 

produced the beautiful old piece of locksmith art. 
At a hasty glance the two keys seemed quite dis¬ 
similar. The long handle of the one w T as topped with 
an intricate monogram and a coronet; the short 
stocky handle of the other was finished with the 
ordinary flattened metal loop. But when the wards 
were laid together they appeared identical. 

Peter whistled softly. Matchem was staring. 

“A duplicate key,” said Peter. “There was al¬ 
ways that possibility—only-” 

“But Gi bert always kept the key on his person,” 
objected Tom, with a bewildered air. “How was it 
possible-” 

Peter tapped him on the chest. 

“I know. You said that before. But if you’ll 
remember, the first time you told me that, the key, 
as a matter of fact, was in the lock of the door—not 
on anybody’s person. I thought of it at the time. 
Don’t you see that if Mr. Fane often, or even some¬ 
times, left the key in the door when he was in the 
room, as would have been natural, it wouldn’t have 
been a very difficult matter for someone to pinch it 
when he wasn’t looking—it’s an awfully big room, and 
those purple curtains might have been drawn, or 
partly so. Well, if I had it to do, I’d watch my 
chance, with a gob of soft wax in my pocket, and I’d 
take an impression before you could say Henry Ford. 
An amateur could do it in a couple of minutes, with a 
little practice beforehand—and nothing to do but slip 
the key back in its place. Wouldn’t even be neces- 



THE KEY 


197 

sary to leave the room if the stage was properly set. 
Don’t you see?” 

“Yes,” Tom admitted, slowly. “But the original 
key was still in the lock, on the inside, when we broke 
the door open.” 

“That’s what threw me off,” said Peter, eagerly. 
“The door couldn’t possibly have been locked from 
the outside with the key in place, if there’d been a 
million duplicates. And that old key couldn’t have 
been manipulated from the outside. Simply couldn’t. 
I tried it over and over again, and I’m some little 
lock-picker, you can take it from me.” 

“Then how-” Tom hazarded. 

Peter shook his head. 

“I don’t know—exactly. But there was a way. 
Finding this duplicate where we did makes it certain. 
God! If I’d only been here.” His brows drew to¬ 
gether in a tight knot. “If I’d seen . . . Oh, 

damn it! . . .” 

He thought a minute. Then he jerked his hand 
up into the air with an impatient motion. 

“Fane’s away and there’s no one in the tower 
now,” he said, hurriedly. “We’d better go down 
there and see if we can dope it out on the spot.” He 
caught up the wet overalls from the floor and jammed 
them into the creel, threw the creel and the plumber’s 
tools into the closet, and locking the door thrust all the 
keys deep into his trousers pocket. “Come on,” he 
said. “No time to waste.” He opened the door into 
the hall and glanced swiftly up and down the passage. 


THE KEY 


198 

“Coast clear, so far,” he added in Tom’s ear. 
“Come ahead.” 

As they descended the great staircase, Peter al¬ 
most automatically resumed the role of Fletcher 
Kenyon for the benefit of several servants whom they 
encountered on the way, but it dropped from him as 
soon as they were safely within the tower. 

He had opened and relocked the door with the key 
he had drawn that morning from the depths of the 
quarry pool. It had worked quite as easily as the 
original key. Now he turned to Matchem, and said: 

“We’ve got to face it, old man. Somehow or 
other, this is the key that did the trick. . . . 
You were on the spot and I’ll have to depend on you. 
I want you to go over again everything that hap¬ 
pened, before and after you broke the door in. Just 
what each person did—where they stood—what they 
said. Act it over for me, if you can—and don’t, for 
God’s sake, leave out anything. The least thing 
may be important.” 

Tom nodded. His eyes narrowed, and he stood 
for a minute, thinking deeply. Then, slowly and 
carefully he went over the occurrences of that eventful 
morning, from the moment when he was awakened 
by the sound of loud knocking in the lower part of the 
house and found Curtis and James Haggerty already 
at the tower door. 

“You know absolutely, of your own knowledge, 
that the door was actually locked ? ” Peter interrupted 
the narrative to ask. 


THE KEY 


199 


“Absolutely,” Tom replied. “I twisted the knob, 
and shook it, and threw my shoulder against the 
door.” 

“Did you look through the keyhole? Do you 
know that the key was in the lock?” 

“There wasn’t the least speck of light coming 
through. I can swear to that. I remember stooping 
down to call through the keyhole—and it was per¬ 
fectly dark. I couldn’t see a thing.” 

They were standing near the door. Thoughtfully, 
Peter drew the heavy portieres across. He regarded 
them for an instant, biting his lip and tapping with 
his foot. Then he passed behind them and Tom 
heard him open and close the door and open and close 
it again. 

“Were those curtains shut when you broke in?” 
asked Peter, returning close to Matchem’s side. 

Tom hesitated. “I—Yes, I think ... I 
can’t be perfectly sure, but I think they were—at 
least partly.” 

Peter was glad that he had to deal with a trained 
observer. Tom rehearsed each incident clearly and 
concisely, so that Peter could visualize each succes¬ 
sive event up to the time of his own appearance on 
the scene. 

“I can only see one way—one possible way,” 
said Peter, thoughtfully, when Matchem had fin¬ 
ished. “The key was in the inside of the lock when 
I came. Now, think carefully—when did you first 
notice it? Not before you found the body?” 


200 


THE KEY 


Tom’s shoulders drew up as Clancy’s words re¬ 
called again that first horrible glimpse of his dead 
cousin, but he answered at once. 

“Oh, no. I was too concerned—too fearful to 
think of anything but Gilbert.” 

“And afterward. Do you remember,” Peter in¬ 
sisted, “when you first saw the key in place?” 

“Let me see,” said Tom, slowly. “It was after 
Curtis took Mrs. Fane upstairs . . . and came 
back . . . and saw Gilbert’s body . . . and 
went away again. . . . Yes,” more decidedly, 

“it wasn’t till I went to see how much damage had 
been done to the door—to see if it could be secured in 
any way—that I remember noticing the key. I 
turned it in the lock then. It wa i of no use, of 
course. The door jamb was splintered and the 
bolt wouldn’t hold.” 

“That was some time later,” Peter considered. 
“ Do you know if any one lingered by the door? Mr. 
Curtis Fane, for instance-” 

“Oh, my God, Clancy! Don’t try to fasten this 
on him. He couldn’t have . . . and anyway 

I’m sure—certain that ... I don’t see exactly 
what your’re driving at, but Curt was close beside me 
all the time he was in the room. He couldn’t have 
made any move without my knowing it.” 

Peter wondered just how dependable this state¬ 
ment was. Not that he suspected Matchem any 
longer, but his loyalty to his cousin . . . 

“You couldn’t lock the door,” said Peter, quietly, 



THE KEY 


201 


“so you left James Haggerty on guard. He was 
near the door all the time, I think you said.” 

“James!” Tom was startled. “James is as faith¬ 
ful as an old setter. You can’t imagine, Clancy, that 
James can have had anything to do with this.” 

Peter looked thoughtful. “Apparently he’s the 
only person who could have done what I think was 
done,” he said. “And you mustn’t lose sight of the 
fact, Matchem, that he admitted that he knew that 
fake plumber was in the house.” He wagged an 
insistent forefinger. “More than that, remember, 
he didn’t admit it at first. It was only after the 
boy, Henry, told about it, that he owned up that he 
was in Curtis Fane’s room at the time the plumber was 
in the bathroom.” 

Tom’s gaze rested on the floor. He was frowning 
intently, silenced if not convinced. 

“We’ve got to have a little session with James 
Haggerty,” Peter went on. “And the sooner the 
quicker. I don’t think it will be necessary to let him 
get wise to my part in the show. You can ask the 
questions and I’ll sit over there in Fletcher Kenyon’s 
old place and listen in. I’ll explain to you just what I 
think happened and give you some leading questions 
to ask and you can dope out the rest for yourself.” 

He then proceeded to elucidate his views at length. 
Matchem listened with absorbed interest. Once or 
twice he nodded his head in startled comprehension 
and all the time he kept his eyes fixed on Clancy’s 
face with appreciative admiration. 


202 


THE KEY 


“You make it all so clear,” he said, when Peter had 
finished, “that it seems as if you must be right, and 
yet-” 

“What?” asked Peter. 

“I don't know,” said Tom, slowly. “It seems to 
knock my amateur theory into a cocked hat, but I 
can't help thinking, all the same-” 

“You aren't ready to tell me what you’ve doped 
out?” queried Peter with a quizzical smile. 

“Not yet,” answered Tom, soberly. “You'd 
think I was all kinds of a fool unless I could show 

j) 

you- 

“Well,” said Peter with a half-patronizing grin, 
“since you aren’t ready to show me, suppose we have 
James Haggerty in and put him through your notion 
of the third degree. We’d better get it over while 
we have the chance and then we’ll know better how to 
act.” 

“All right,” assented Matchem, and while Peter 
took up his old position in front of the fireplace, 
Tom left the room, to return presently, followed by 
James Haggerty. 

Peter glanced covertly at the man as he entered. 
The handsome old face was very white, the eyes, 
under their stiff, overhanging brows, looked sunken 
and their glance was restless and perturbed as they 
travelled swiftly all about the great room. 

With scarcely a glance at Peter, Matchem went 
directly to the desk from which he had paid off the 
servants only two evenings before. He motioned the 




THE KEY 


203 

valet to be seated on a chair near by. The position 
of the chair brought the man directly within Clancy’s 
view, and although it was at some little distance from 
him, his sharp ears detected every change of inflec¬ 
tion, every word of the conversation which ensued. 

If, during the interview, it came into Haggerty’s 
mind to question the advisability of a third person in 
the room, he was too well-trained a servant to make 
any remark. Once only he raised his eyebrows 
questioningly and made a slight motion of his head 
in the direction of the supposed Mr. Fletcher Ken¬ 
yon. Tom replied with a quick gesture and a mo¬ 
tion of the lips which plainly indicated that they need 
not fear attracting the attention of the absorbed in¬ 
dividual on the other side of the room. 

Tom opened the interview with a brief explana¬ 
tion. In a kindly, reassuring voice he said: 

“I want to have a little talk with you, James. I 
think you may be able to help me out about one or 
two matters. The police don’t seem to me to be doing 
much good—not a very intelligent lot, do you think?” 

Haggerty shook his white head and thrust up his 
lower lip in an expression of contempt. 

“That’s the way I feel,” Tom continued, “and 
I’ve been doing a little investigating on my own. In 
sizing up the situation, I’ve come across something— 
something that the police don’t even suspect.” 

James Haggerty’s face was a study; intent and 
anxious it was, and filled with carefully restrained 
emotion. His voice, however, was the voice of the 


THE KEY 


204 

perfect servant. He said, “Yes, sir,” and was silent. 

“There’s one point about it that I can’t make out 
exactly,” said Tom, evenly, “and I think your 
memory may be better than mine, or that you may 
know something—a little point which may involve 
much. I want you to take your mind back to the 
moment when you and Mr. Curtis came down to the 
door here, day before yesterday, before——” 

James nodded slowly several times. It was not 
necessary for Matchem to particularize further. 

“You had tried the door more than once and 
found it locked.” 

Again Haggerty nodded. 

“Did you, by any chance, look through the key¬ 
hole?” 

“I did, sir. That is, I tried to, but I couldn’t see 
anything.” 

“ You supposed that the key was in the lock?” 

“Why—why certainly, sir.” Surprise was evident 
in the controlled voice. 

“And I have every reason to think it wasn’t'—not 
dien,” said Tom, looking keenly into the face before 
him. 

He saw it change swiftly, but was unable to inter¬ 
pret the glance with which Haggerty regarded him. 

“Not then?” repeated the valet, slowly. “The 

key—not in the lock when- Good God! Mr. 

Matchem. I never thought ... I supposed 
. . .” The start of surprise, the bewilderment, 

the concern were well acted, if acting it was. 




THE KEY 


205 

“What is it, James? What is it?” Tom ques¬ 
tioned, eagerly. “/ think the key was not in the 
lock when we broke the door open. Do you 
know-” 

The old man raised his clenched fist to his mouth, 
biting the knuckle of his forefinger. His arrested 
glance was fixed on Matchem’s eyes. There was a 
slight pause before he answered slowly: 

“The key . . . Yes . . . But I thought 

. . . I thought, of course, that it fell out when you 

broke in! It never entered my head-” 

“Fell out?” interrupted Tom, his voice vibrant 
with excitement. “What do you mean—Tell out/ 
James?” 

“Why, Mr. Tom, the door was locked, you know, 
and when I found the key on the floor-” 

“On the floor!” exclaimed Matchem, scarcely able 
to restrain himself. 

“I thought it had fallen out—it did, sometimes, if 
the door was banged hard—I thought the force of 
the blows ... I picked it up, when I picked up 
the splinters of wood, and put it in its place. But 
I found it, Mr. Tom—I found it on the floor.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


Margaret Stacy 


HILE Peter was making these engrossing in- 



* ’ vestigations at the great house in Bernard 
Ridge, his coadjutor, Captain James O’Malley (late 
of the New York police, and still retaining his title), 
was not finding that the time hung heavily on his 
hands. Having spent the previous night in Morris- 
vilie, he was in a position to follow promptly the 
instructions detailed to him by Peter in that morn¬ 
ing’s second conversation over the wire. 

Pursuant of these, at a little before eleven o’clock 
in the morning he entered the cathedral-like railway 
station at Morrisville and unostentatiously took up a 
position from which he could view the intending pas¬ 
sengers for the 11 :io express to New York. The train 
made up at Morrisville and the majority of the passen¬ 
gers entered it as soon as they reached the platform, 
so that O’Malley’s view was practically unobstructed. 

Minutes passed, however, and he had failed to 
mark down his quarry. Anxiously his eye flashed 
up to the clock on the wall—11:9. Peter’s instruc¬ 
tions had been explicit and he had evidently attached 
a vast degree of importance to the mission with 


MARGARET STACY 


207 

which O’Malley had been entrusted. If there should 
be a slip- 

The conductor was already at the steps of the first 
coach, his watch in his hand. O’Malley was looking 
worried. The hand of the big station clock ticked— 
1 1:10. The conductor waved his hand. 

At that instant a man dashed across the platform 
and boarded the train. One look, and O’Malley 
followed, achieving the steps of the third coach with 
surprising agility. Through the line of aisles and 
open doors he watched Curtis Fane enter the club 
car at the rear. When he was out of sight, O’Malley 
sauntered back to the car immediately ahead of the 
club car and ensconced himself in a corner seat, from 
which he could observe any one who should enter or 
leave the train by that platform. Being assured of 
Fane’s probable destination, the precaution was more 
a matter of habit than necessity, but the old ex-police- 
man was usually on the safe side. As he was wont to 
observe, “You never can tell.” 

At each station stop, all the way in to Hoboken, 
O’Malley watched the door of the club car, but 
nothing of interest occurred. As the train puffed and 
snorted into the terminal, the old man rose and 
placed himself alongside the door in such a position 
that he could observe the rear without bringing 
himself conspicuously into evidence. 

Almost at once he saw Curtis Fane’s immaculate^ 
well-tailored person among the others of his class 
emerging from the club car. O’Malley followed at 



208 


THE KEY 


some little distance, keeping Fane in view. The man 
seemed preoccupied, and several times O’Malley 
saw him glance aside and behind him in a quick, 
covert manner. 

O’Malley felt certain that Fane had not remarked 
his espionage of the previous morning, and he had 
little fear of detection, but that Fane was on the alert 
for someone he had little doubt. 

“Don’t you worry about him,” O’Malley remarked 
inwardly, apostrophizing the tall figure and hand¬ 
some head which appeared every now and then 
through the crowd. “He’s not in on this piece. 
But look out for him, old top! He’ll be laying for 
you later, or I don’t know the breed.” 

They went down into the Hudson Tube and 
crossed to Thirty-third Street. At Sixth Avenue 
Fane hailed a cab and was driven eastward. O’Mal¬ 
ley took another and followed. Fane retained his 
cab when he stopped at the Knickerbocker Bank on 
Fifth Avenue and O’Malley did likewise. 

He waited a moment on the curb when Fane en¬ 
tered the bank, then went in himself and, from an 
angle of the wall, saw Fane at the paying-teller’s 
window. Peter had given his partner a broad hint 
and O’Malley was not altogether surprised when 
Fane, leaving the pay window with a large sheaf of 
bank-notes in his hand, proceeded to take his place 
on the line at the receiving-teller’s cage, after step¬ 
ping over to a desk to make out a deposit slip. 

Prepared for this action on Fane’s part, O’Malley 


MARGARET STACY 


209 


allowed one more man to take his place on the line 
and then added his own bulky person to the queue. 
Thus he was near enough to hear the conversation 
when Fane reached the window. 

“Good morning, sir,” said the receiving-teller, 
pleasantly. “H’m. Ten thousand.” Followed the 
slip-slap of rapidly counted currency. “Yes, ten 
thousand. Right, sir.” 

That was all. Fane left the window and went 
over to a shadowed corner where O’Malley saw him 
take out a wallet, place within it the remainder of 
the money from the check he had just cashed and 
return the wallet to an inner breast pocket. 

O’Malley dropped out of his place on the line 
(much to the relief of an impatient maiden lady who 
had been stepping on his heels), and was in the street 
before Fane came out of the bank. He had little 
doubt when he gave the name of the Mohawk Hotel 
to his taxi-driver that he was only echoing the ad¬ 
dress given by the handsome gentleman on the curb 
to the driver of the yellow taxi-cab just ahead. His 
assurance was borne out by the facts, for the yellow 
taxi made good speed up to Forty-fourth Street, 
turned west, and stopped in front of that rather 
flamboyant hostelry. 

O’Malley waited a few minutes in the street after 
Fane had disappeared inside. Then he, too, entered. 
A swift glance assured him that Fane had already 
gone upstairs and he went at once to the desk. There 
he was cordially greeted by his friend, Brock. 


210 


THE KEY 


Hastily returning the salutation, O’Malley leaned 
over the counter and asked in a low voice: 

“Gentleman just gone up to see Miss Stacy, 
Brock?” 

The clerk grinned and nodded. 

“Having a little bit of luck, the old girl, I guess,” 
he volunteered. “Paid a tidy bit on account yester¬ 
day afternoon. I guess she’s a good enough risk after 
all, with friends like that guy.” A snap of his head 
in the direction of the elevator. “Well, and what can 
I do for you now, Captain?” 

“Have the girl get my office, if you will, Brock.” 
He repeated a number. “I’ll take it in the booth 
over there. After that, we’ll talk.” 

Which they did as soon as O’Malley had finished 
with the telephone. They conversed for many 
minutes, leaning close together across the counter. 
Now O’Malley seemed to be arguing and the clerk 
objecting. Once the old man placed a large, per¬ 
suasive hand on the clerk’s arm. At the last Brock 
grinned and shook his head. 

“I can’t deny you anything, old sport,” he said. 
“I owe you one, anyway. I’ll fix it for you.” 

It was just then that a dapper little man in 
spectacles came hurriedly in. He glanced around 
with a quick, bird-like motion and without speaking 
to any one dropped into a chair and unfolded a news¬ 
paper. He did not look at O’Malley, O’Malley did 
not look at him. 

The elevator went up and down. People passed 


MARGARET STACY 


211 


through the lobby, in and out. Still O’Malley 
leaned with one arm on the counter and carried on a 
desultory conversation with the hotel clerk. Still 
the dapper little man hid his spectacles behind the 
newspaper. 

At length the elevator door opened again and two 
theatrically dressed ladies came out, talking volubly. 
Behind them, with an odd half-smile on his face, 
came Curtis Fane. 

O’Malley, at the desk, scarcely turned his head, 
but he did lift one large, heavy hand to his hat. He 
removed his hat, ran the other hand through his 
thick iron-gray hair, and put his hat on again. 

Curtis Fane passed out into the street. 

As the door swung behind him, the dapper little 
man folded up his newspaper, rose, stamped his feet to 
straighten the creases in his neat trousers, and strolled 
leisurely from the hotel. O’Malley grinned pleas¬ 
antly at nothing. He had not looked at the little 
man, the little man had not looked at him, but he 
knew that he would receive an accurate report that 
night if Curtis Fane so much as “ batted an eye” on 
his way back to Bernard Ridge. 

Well satisfied with events as far as they had pro¬ 
gressed, O’Malley spoke quickly to the clerk. 

“It’s up to you now, Brock,” he said. “Come on, 
get busy!” 

“There’ll be a hell of a mess, if you slip up, old 
scout, and it’ll cost me my job,” said the clerk, re¬ 
luctantly. “If it was anybody but you-” 


212 


THE KEY 

“No sob stuff/’ retorted O’Malley, laughing. “I’ll 
put it across. Don’t you worry, son. On your 
way!” 

The clerk glanced doubtfully at O’Malley and then 
went over to the switchboard operator whose back 
was toward them. He leaned over the back of her 
chair and said: 

“Gwendolin, call Miss Stacy’s room, and tell her 
that the gentleman wants to come up again for a 
minute. He’s forgotten something. Will it be all 
right for him to come back, see?” 

Not troubling her fluffy head as to whether the re¬ 
quest were unusual or not, the operator put through 
the call. 

“’S all right,” she said, as the rubber cord snapped 
the plug down into the board. “He c’n go right up.” 

A moment or two later O’Malley knocked quietly 
on a mahogany door on the fifth floor. A rather 
high-pitched voice called to him to enter. Gently he 
opened the door and, stepping inside, looked about 
him with a calm, benignant, fatherly smile. 

“Good lord! Who are you? I thought-” 

The woman beside the window had jumped to her 
feet. She was short and blonde and very plump— 
the type which was once known as “a tidy figure of a 
woman” but which is now, alas for her sort, hope¬ 
lessly out of date. 

“What do you mean, coming into my room like 
this?” she asked, sharply. “I don’t know you-” 

“Not yet you don’t, Miss Stacy,” remarked 


MARGARET STACY 


213 

O’Malley, blandly. “ But I hope to know you bet¬ 
ter, ma’am, and I think you’ll be glad to know me, 
too.” 

There was authority as well as suavity in his man¬ 
ner. The woman looked at him keenly. 

“I am expecting someone,” she said, hastily. “I 
don’t know who you are or what you want, but what¬ 
ever it is, I can’t see you now. You’ll have to-” 

“Mr. Fane is on his way to Bernard Ridge and I’m 
taking his place,” said O’Malley, calmly. 

“Well, for the love of God! You say it easy 
enough, Mr.-” 

“Smith,” supplied O’Malley—“Archibald Smith, 
at your service.” He bowed elaborately. 

The woman’s eyes gleamed at him through half- 
closed lids. She sank back into her chair, and her 
tiny high-heeltd slipper tapped the floor nervously. 
She was evidently thinking as hard as her excitement 
and limited brain capacity would let her. It was 
not. to O’Malley’s advantage to give her too much 
time. He spoke quickly: 

“I want to be a friend to you, Miss Stacy.” His 
tone was fatherly to a degree. “I think you’ve been 
very badly treated, and I believe I can help you 
out.” 

“I don’t know why you think I’ve been badly 
treated,” she said, sharply. “What do you call be¬ 
ing badly treated, eh?” 

“Well,” said O’Malley, slowly, “if, being a lady 
with a good claim on a gentleman’s consideration, I’d 



THE KEY 


214 

asked him for twenty thousand to buy an annuity, 
and he’d come across with just half, and no more-” 

The woman started upright in her chair. Her 
high bust heaved rapidly, her tiny, plump ringed 
fingers fairly twittered. 

“How in the devil, unless you are the devil him¬ 
self—how can you know-? What makes you 

think-?” 

“Come, now, my dear,” soothed O’Malley. 
“Don’t get excited. It’s bad for the digestion. 
Your pretty face is getting quite red and you look 
better the other way. Just let’s talk the whole thing 
over quietly. There’s a good girl.” He reached 
over and patted her hand in the manner of an indul¬ 
gent parent. “It’s a shame they should be so stingy 
to you after all is said and done. Fane’s a tightwad 
if there ever was one. What excuse did he give you 
for only handing over ten thousand?” He was feel¬ 
ing his way. Peter had told him that he was certain 
that Curtis Fane had eagerly welcomed the chance to 
act as go-between. It was O’Malley’s duty to find 
out the object of this, at any cost, to discover whether 
Fane was a man who could be trusted to act squarely 
—to settle the question as to whether Peter’s sus¬ 
picion that Fane had deliberately planted Margaret 
Stacy’s letter in his brother’s old desk were true or 
false. 

“He said he couldn’t dig up another bean,” an¬ 
swered the woman, faintly. 

O’Malley thought: “Fane’s object might possibly 


MARGARET STACY 


215 

have been O. K. at that. He may be going to hand 
the money back to his cousin even if he did deposit 
it to his own account at the Knickerbocker Bank." 
Aloud he said: 

“And you signed the paper he brought for a 
measly ten thousand ?" 

“Oh, my God! Could I have gotten more? Mr. 
Smith, could I?” 

O'Malley laughed a little. “All I know for certain 
is that he left Bernard Ridge this morning with a 
check for twenty thousand in his clothes." 

The woman's face turned livid. All the greed 
of her small nature came to the surface, and she 
clutched O’Malley's arm. 

“Is it too late?" she cried. “You're so clever. 
You know so much. Can't you help me get the 
rest?" 

The old man looked doubtful. “I don’t exactly 
see how it can be managed—you having signed the 
paper and all—but we can always try. Suppose you 
put me wise to the whole story. I wasn’t in on the 
first part of the piece. How'd you come to know 
Gilbert Fane, anyway?" 

Margaret Stacy shifted uneasily in her chair. She 
regarded O'Malley suspiciously. 

“Say, you aren't so awfully wise as you want me 
to think," she said. “Just how much do you know, 
Mr. Smith? Tell me." 

“ I know, and I can prove it to you," said O'Malley, 
deliberately, “that Curtis Fane got twenty thousand 


THE KEY 


216 

dollars from his cousin this morning to hand over to 
you—to save the family name. They can’t afford 
to have a scandal come up just now—that, and a 
murder besides, is a little more limelight than any 
family would want.” 

The woman had scarcely listened to his last words. 

“Twenty thousand,” she repeated in a low, eager 
tone. “Gil had twenty thousand for me, you say?” 

“Gil?” echoed O’Malley. “You don’t mean Gil¬ 
bert. It was Curtis that-” 

Margaret Stacy started forward, her shiny pink 
finger-nails caught at the edge of her teeth. She 
laughed a little, high-pitched, nervous laugh, almost 
a giggle. 

“You catch a girl up so quick, Mr. Smith. I’ve 

called him- You see I-Curtis! Of course. 

I meant Curtis.” She was so excited that she 
seemed scarcely to know what she was saying. “He 
had twenty thousand . . . twenty thousand 

. . . and for me. You’re sure it was for me? 

Then what did he do with it? Why didn’t he come 
across ? ” 

“He cashed the check and deposited half of it to 
his own account in the Knickerbocker Bank,” said 
O’Malley, watching the shallow face before him, his 
every sense on the alert. 

“The mean hound!” she cried, furiously. “The 

selfish, stingy-Oh, Mr. Smith, I’ve treated him 

white from the very start! I’ve done everything 
he asked and he’s double-crossed me! When we 


MARGARET STACY 


217 

lived together nine or ten years ago we were as 
happy as could be. I never looked at another man 
and I had my chances, take it from me! I was some 
looker in those days, and he was fairly crazy about 
me! And now—now—he comes to me and tells me 
he’s up against it—that ten thousand is every bean 
that' he can dig up now that his rich brother is dead. 

I read about it in the papers and I thought- It 

seemed to me that ten thousand dollars was a whole 
lot better than nothing. And I was willing to keep 
my mouth shut about the way he’d let me think-” 

“That he was Gilbert Fane!” cried O’Malley, a 
great light breaking upon him. “Curtis let you think 
he was Gilbert! Am I right, girl? Am I right?” 

“Sure he did, the liar!” she said, venomously. 
“And he got away with it, too. You could have 
knocked me down with a feather when he walked in 
here yesterday, and I’d thought he’d been murdered! 
Read about it, of course. Thought it was all up with 
me. Guess he was afraid I’d go out to Bernard 
Ridge, like I said in a letter I wrote him, and spill the 
beans. I would have, too,” vindictively. “I’d 
have tried a fall out of his widow—at least I thought 
it was his widow.” She laughed hysterically. 
“Ain’t it funny, Mr. Smith? I’d have gone out 
there and-” 

“He sized you up right then, and made up his 
mind to forestall you,” thought O’Malley. “And 
he put your letter where Mrs. Fane was bound to 
find it, hoping somebody would come across and he’d 


218 


THE KEY 


be able to split the check and make you take half. 
Some plotter, Ell tell a suffering world! Why, a 
man that could do that is capable . . .” Aloud 

he said: 

“It seems funny to me, Miss Stacy, that he was 
able to make you think he was Gilbert Fane all these 
years. I don’t see how he could have worked it.” 

“Well, it wasn’t so hard as you might think,” she 
said, impatiently. “We don’t exactly move in the 
same circles—and I guess it was some my fault at 
first. I gave him the cue, and he was quick enough 
to take it, you can bet your life.” 

“How do you mean you gave him the cue?” asked 
O’Malley, curiously. 

“Oh, he didn’t give his real name when we first got 
acquainted. Most of ’em don’t. But I soon got 
wise he was stringing me, and one day I saw him on 
the street when he didn’t see me and I followed him 
home. It’s one of those big houses on Fifth Avenue, 
opposite the park, you know, and I hung around a 
while until I saw him come out again. He’d changed 
his clothes, so I knew he lived there, and I just 
thought I’d have some fun with him, so I walked up 
to the door, bold as brass, and asked for Mr. Gerard 
Jones, which was the name he called himself. I 
wasn’t surprised when James-at-the-door said Mr. 
Jones didn’t live there. Then I asked who did, and 
he said ‘Mr. Gilbert Fane,’ see? So, of course, I 

thought- And he let me think it, the devil fly 

away with him! He told me yesterday that he 


MARGARET STACY 


219 

thought that he could get some money for me if Td 
keep my mouth shut and let him work it his own way. 
His own way! My God, Mr. Smith! And giving me 
only ten when I might just as well have had twenty! 
Ain’t it a crime? I ask you, ain’t it a crime?” 

O’Malley leaned forward, all the fatherliness gone 
from manner. He regarded her steadily and his 
voice was grim. 

“There’s more than one crime in this,” he said. 
“There’s murder—and there’s blackmail, my girl. 
Just you think of that! You’ll stay where you are 
in case I want you, see? If you try to get away, I’ll 
have you pinched. Every move you make will be 
watched from now on, so don’t try any funny busi¬ 
ness. Blackmail’s an ugly crime, and if you’re let 
off with what you’ve got you’ll be lucky. I don’t 
know what action the family will want to take, but 
you’ll stay here until I do. I’ve found out what I 
came for, madam, and my last word to you is, watch 
your step. Watch your step, my girl!” 


CHAPTER XXII 


The Will 


APTAIN JAMES O’MALLEY, well pleased 



^ with himself, made the best possible time back 
to Morrisville. As soon as he arrived there he called 
Peter on the ’phone. 

In view of the fact that the entire family were 
away, attending the quiet funeral of Gilbert Fane, 
Peter thought it possible to allow Mr. Fletcher 
Kenyon a call from an old friend, and accordingly in 
a very short time he and his partner were closeted in 
Peter’s spacious room at Tower Hall. 

O’Malley made his report briefly and concisely. 
There was grim enjoyment in the narration for, once 
again, he had something to spring on Pete. 

“The hell you say!” exclaimed Peter, when 
O’Malley disclosed Margaret Stacy’s mistake in the 

identity of the two brothers. “Why, then- By 

George! Of course! Gilbert never saw that letter. 
Curtis had it all the time! Must have happened to 
see it first and knew the writing, lucky for him—or 
unlucky, as the case may be. The man’s a damned 
scoundrel, whatever happens, that’s a cinch! It’ll 
do me good to get him! But we’ll have to go a bit 


220 


THE WILL 


221 


slaw. If he pulled this murder we don’t want to 
bring him up on a lesser count—conspiracy, or any¬ 
thing.” He got up and walked across the floor and 
back. “I see it all now, thanks to you, old scout.” 
He gave O’Malley a hearty slap on the back. “ I saw 
him put something in that drawer and guessed, of 
course, what it was when the Stacy woman’s letter 
turned up. Had a hunch at the time that it was a 
plant. He probably would have called Mrs. Fane’s 
attention to it later if she hadn’t found it herself. 
That’s what he wanted—for her to find it, so he could 
play innocent. That’s why he didn’t tell her about 
the secret drawer last night when he pretended to 
help her hunt for the will. Bet you he knew she 
knew about the drawer! Bet you anything you like, 
O’Malley, that she didn’t know that he knew she 
knew. Some ‘knews,’ but you get me.” 

O’Malley nodded his comprehension. 

“ Couldn’t quite see his plan at first,” Peter hur¬ 
ried on, “but if he was in desperate need of money, 
why—he knew both women well. He was sure Mrs. 
Fane would come across to hush up the scandal, and 
that he could get the Stacy woman to take half she 
asked in the circumstances. Nobody knew where 
she was but himself. The letter didn’t give her 
address because he’d tom it off 7 . That was why the 
top line of the first sheet was missing—to make sure 
they’d call him into the game. He was the logical 
one to appeal to, even though Mrs. Fane was con¬ 
vinced that it was Gilbert who was implicated. Cur- 


222 


THE KEY 


tis would be supposed to know his brother’s affairs 
better than any one else, especially things connected 
with his life before his marriage. They were bound 
to consult him, naturally.” 

“And the whole thing worked out like a charm,” 
agreed O’Malley. “He’s made ten thousand out of 
the deal and none of them the wiser.” 

“Not yet,” said Peter, grimly. 

“No, not yet,” said O’Malley. “But what do 
you propose to do now, Pete? I’ve left Fox on the 
job at the Mohawk. We can get the woman any 
time we want her. But-— ” 

“We’ll have to let that ride for the present,” Peter 
said, thoughtfully. “So far it doesn’t help much 
except to give us a line on the kind of man we’ve got 
to deal with. He’s been playing for bigger stakes 
than this little side job, or I’ll eat my hat. There 
isn’t a doubt in my mind now that he’d planned a 
big robbery with the help of our plumber. And 
speaking of him-” 

“Oh, speaking of him,” O’Malley repeated, hast¬ 
ily, “I meant to tell you, Pete, but I had so much on 
my mind—the garage man has identified him.” 

“He has!” said Peter, eagerly. “Good eye!” 

“Yes.” O’Malley made haste to deliver the de¬ 
layed information. “Fosdick got him over at lunch 
time when our long^chinned bird at the Essex Hotel 
was peacefully eating ham and eggs. The garage 
man gave him the once-over, and is sure he’s the 
same guy that had the breakdown on the night of 


THE WILL 


223 

the murder and wanted to settle, in fact did settle, 
with a new fifty-dollar bill. The chap that thought 
it wise to change his appearance before he went into 
the limelight at the tube station in Newark. It’s the 
same bird that tried to get into conversation with 
Curtis Fane in front of the Mohawk—the one you 
saw at the inquest.” 

“That ties it all up, to my mind,” said Peter, 
“and I’m morally certain he’s the fake plumber, too. 
But whether we can prove it, O’Malley—that’s the 
question. I figure it out that Curtis Fane had it all 
piped to make a raid on his brother’s outfit in the 
tower. He got the duplicate key made, or at least 
got the impression of the original. He had plenty 
of chances to do it. The fake plumber is pretty 
sure to be an expert safe-cracker. Bet we’ll find he 
has a record.” 

“But how would a man like Curtis Fane ever get to 
know a yegg?” wondered O’Malley. 

“Fane.was in the army,” answered Peter, medita¬ 
tively. “You got to know a lot of queer characters 
in the war. I speak from experience. And then 
Fane’s been about a lot—he’s a regular sport from 
what I’ve found out—race-tracks and gambling 
joints—wouldn’t be much trouble for him to meet 
any old kind. Anyhow, our smooth friend with the 
long jaw—by the way, what does he call himself, 
O’Malley?” 

“Registered as John Dolan at the Essex House.” 

“Alias, of course. Won’t help us any,” said Peter, 


THE KEY 


224 

“but I bet we find he has a record as soon as we have 
time to look it up. We may have to pinch him to do 
it, though. You’ve got that all set, of course, 
O’Malley?” 

“Yes. Fixed it up early this morning. Saw the 
chief of police and the tecs at Morrisville, and put ’em 
wise to as much as was necessary to get out a war¬ 
rant for Dolan. They were some surprised to know 
we were on the job and it was easy enough to get 
cooperation as soon as I waved Peter Clancy at 
’em.” O’Malley chuckled. “They’ll be good and 
do what you tell ’em, son. Don’t lose any sleep 
over that.” 

“I won’t,” grinned Peter, “but you cut as wide a 
swath with the police as I do, any day in the week. 
Don’t forget that, old scout. Now I think you’d 
better make a get-away before the family arrive. 
Watch Dolan like a hawk and don’t let him slip. 
He’s here for a purpose, and it wouldn’t take much 
of a mind-reader to guess what that purpose is. If 
We could catch him and Fane together we might find 
out a whole lot. There was a slip-up on the rob¬ 
bery, somehow. I can’t figure out exactly why 
Dolan got only five hundred when there was more 
lying loose in an open drawer—if it was open at the 
time.” 

“But there was no slip-up on the murder, Pete,” 
said O’Malley. 

“No. And that’s where the shoe pinches. Which 
of ’em pulled that? And why? The robbery is a 


THE WILL 


225 

cinch—they were both in on that. . . . But the 

murder . . ” 

Peter continued to puzzle over the question long 
after O’Malley had left. He reviewed the whole 
situation over and over again. That Curtis Fane 
was a “rotter” was apparent. Small loss to any¬ 
body if he was “bumped off,” even if Matchem 
couldn’t bring himself to think the worst of his 
cousin. But would Fane have murdered his own 
brother? Killed the goose that laid the golden 
eggs? . . . Unless the goose had refused to lay 

any more . . . There was the paper, the outline 

of which was marked on the table by the blood of 
the murdered man—the paper Curtis Fane must 
have taken and destroyed. . . . Supposing it 

had been a will, disinheriting Curtis. . . . If no 

will were found, the wife and child would inherit 
everything. . . . But if Curtis knew of a will— 

if he knew of the will Denise Fane had discovered, 
under Peter’s eye, in the old desk . . . and was 

biding his time . . . knowing she would eventu¬ 
ally look in the right place . . 

If she failed to produce the will, Peter thought, 
what should he do ? He could guess from her broken 
sentences, when she found it, what the provisions of 
the will were in the main. He could scarcely blame 
her for suppressing it—for destroying it even—when 
she believed that her husband was still carrying 
on an affair with another woman. But if she 
knew . . . 


226 


THE KEY 


On an impulse Peter rose and opened his door. 
He had heard the sound of a motor coming up the 
long drive. He went quietly to the head of the stairs 
and was in time to see the great entrance door thrown 
open and Denise Fane come into the lower hall, 
leaning on Matchem’s arm. Curtis Fane was close 
behind them. Peter retreated to his room, leaving 
his door ajar. 

He heard them all come up the stairs together. 
Mrs. Fane and Curtis went into their own rooms. 
Matchem came on down the hall. As he started to 
pass Peter’s door, it opened and the detective’s hand 
was laid warningly on his arm. 

“Come in here a moment, Matchem,” he whis¬ 
pered. “I have something to tell you.” 

When the door was safely closed, however, Peter’s 
first words were a question. 

“How did Mr. Fane come out with the woman who 
wrote that infernal letter?” he asked, eagerly. “Was 
he able to save any of your money for you?” 

Matchem’s head jerked up with a quick, impatient 
motion. 

“I don’t care about the money, Clancy,” he said. 
“It was Gilbert’s in a way, you know. I never could 
have saved that much in nine years if it hadn’t been 
for him. He paid me handsomely for the little I 
did, and I lived in his house. If it was to save 
Denise even a moment’s unpleasantness-” 

“So Mr. Fane had to give up the whole twenty 
thousand?” said Peter, slowly. 


THE WILL 


227 

At his tone, Matchem looked up quickly into his 
face. 

“What do you mean by asking that again, in that 
way, Clancy? I don’t understand.” 

“There are a lot of things a man like you wouldn’t 
understand, Matchem.” Peter put his hand on the 
other’s shoulder. “I believe you’re too straight to 
suspect crookedness in any one else, but there are 
queer people in the world and you’ve just got to 
make up your mind to the fact that your cousin Curtis 
is one of the queerest.” 

“I know he hasn’t always run quite straight,” 
said Tom, reluctantly, “but he was a bully little 
chap when he was a kid.” 

“That may be, too,” remarked Peter, grimly, 
“but he’s no bully little chap now, Matchem. Far 
from it. He’s a rotter, that’s what he is.” Peter’s 
tone was low but filled with indignation as he looked 
into those kind brown eyes. “He lied to you. He 
took all your savings for that woman, old man, but 
he satisfied her with half and kept the rest for himself. 
And what’s more, it wasn’t to save Gilbert’s reputa¬ 
tion at all. It was to save his rotten self!” 

“What!” cried Tom, aghast. “What do you 
mean, Clancy?” 

“Not so loud,” whispered Peter with a jerk of the 
head in the direction of Fane’s room. “I’ll tell you 
what I know, and how I know it.” And he pro¬ 
ceeded to relate O’Malley’s recent discoveries. 

“I want you to go to Mrs. Fane now,” he said in 


228 


THE KEY 


conclusion. “Put her wise to my part in the game, 
tell her all Fve just told you, and then come back to 
me. 5) 

“All right, Clancy. I’ll do what you say. But, 
good God! I can’t believe it,” said Tom, in a tone 
that went to Peter’s heart. “How could Curt . . . 
How could he . . . Well, well, it will be some 

comfort to tell Denise that it wasn’t Gilbert, after all. 
I’ll go at once.” 

Peter paced up and down his own room, waiting 
anxiously for Matchem’s return. His mind was 
chiefly occupied with the beautiful young widow 
whose enigmatic personality had puzzled him from the 
first. He had never had any dealings with a woman 
of just her type, and at first her attitude had seemed 
to him incongruous, hardly consistent with the heart¬ 
rending tragic events through which she had passed. 
Her proud, grave bearing might have been maintained 
to cover a deep sorrow, but Peter was sure that 
this was not the case. 

In the beginning he had suspected some secret 
understanding between Curtis Fane and herself, 
based on Matchem’s report of the discrepancy be¬ 
tween his own knowledge and their statement as to 
the time when last Gilbert Fane was seen alive by 
them. The fact that the clock in the tower was out 
of order and had stopped again that morning, com¬ 
bined with the evidence that Mrs. Fane’s watch was 
at the jeweller’s and that she had no clock in her 
room, satisfied Peter that she had actually heard the 


THE WILL 


229 

tower clock (running slow) strike eleven, though it 
was really a much later hour; that at least her side of 
the statement was given in good faith. 

The clearing up of this point had been a great relief 
to Matchem; that was plain. Peter could imagine 
what his feelings must have been when he had, in¬ 
nocently and inadvertently, brought her under sus¬ 
picion. Peter had been more and more aware as the 
days had passed that Matchem loved her with all the 
tenderness of a great devotion. . . . Was she 

worthy of it? Peter wondered. Without her knowl¬ 
edge, he had been the witness of a moral conflict within 
her which, in that midnight hour of stress, had gone 
against her. To hide, to suppress the truth, would 
always be a plague spot on a clean and innocent soul, 
no matter what worldly advantage might be obtained 
thereby. . . . Was her soul like this? That 

was the point in question now. How would she 
stand this new test ? 

He had seen her inward struggle when she found 
the will and the letter. It was the letter which de¬ 
cided her to suppress the will. And now—now that 
she knew . . . 

The moments passed. Peter glanced out at the sky 
where broad gray clouds were gathering. He lis¬ 
tened to the sounds in the next room. Curtis Fane 
was still there. Peter would undertake to know his 
every movement from now on. If Peter could get 
hold of the will . . . could prove that Fane knew 

he would benefit by his brother’s death. . . . 


THE KEY 


230 

A step in the passage. A quick knock on the door. 
Peter sprang to open it. 

Matchem stood on the threshold, his face very 
white under its tan. Without speaking he closed and 
locked the door. Then he advanced to the middle 
of the room, taking Peter with him. He motioned 
Peter to a chair and dropped into one close by, with 
the air of a man half dazed. 

“Look at this, Clancy,” he said. “Denise dis¬ 
covered it last night,” and withdrew his hand from 
his pocket. In it was a folded gray-blue paper. 
“It’s Gilbert’s will,” he added, tonelessly. “The 
only will to be found.” 

Peter’s estimation of Denise Fane’s character 
rose with a bound. So much better—so much better 
to produce the will and fight it out in the open— 
no matter what happened. No concealment, no 
evasion. He’d see to it, somehow, that she didn’t 
suffer, Peter thought—she and her little son. Eagerly 
he unfolded the paper. It rustled in his hand as he 
turned the sheets. 

Tom watched him in silence. When he had 
finished reading the paper, Peter looked up with a 
curious expression on his face. 

“Poor Denise,” said Tom, sadly, meeting Peter’s 
eye. “It’s the only will . . . and perfectly 
regular as far as I can tell. I know Gilbert’s signa¬ 
ture . . . and the two witnesses are old servants 

and still with the family. . . .” 

“Yes,” said Peter, slowly, “I guess it’s regular, as 


THE WILL 


231 

you say.” Tom, still looking at Peter, was surprised 
to see a grim smile on his face while he made the 
admission. “But it’s a long time to have the same 
servants in a family,” Peter went on. “Did you 
notice the date?” 

“Yes, August 17, 1909. It was a long time ago, 
of course, but as far as we can tell it’s the only will 
in existence.” 

“And it was made at a time when Curtis Fane 
was his brother’s only close relative. That would 
explain its provisions.” 

“And it wasn’t really intended for a slight and 
injustice to Denise and little Stuart,” interrupted 
Tom, eagerly, “I pointed that out to her—it made 
all the difference in the world.” 

“Yes!” exclaimed Peter. “You’ve hit it, old top. 
You’ve hit it! It makes all the difference in the 
world! Do you mean to tell me”—he reached over 
and tapped Tom’s knee with the folded document— 
“Do you mean to tell me,” he repeated, “that none 
of you know any more about the law than to think 
. why, man, Mrs. Fane doesn’t need to con¬ 
test this will. She and her son inherit everything! 
This will was made before Gilbert Fane’s marriage 
and by that marriage it becomes null and void. It’s 
of no more use than a last year’s bird nest. It isn’t 
worth the paper it’s written on!” 

“Are you sure, Clancy? Are you certain?” 
Tom’s voice thrilled with excitement. “There 
can’t be any mistake? Oh, thank God! Thank 


THE KEY 


232 

God!” He rose hurriedly and thrust the will into 

his pocket. “I’ll tell Denise at once-” and was 

about to leave the room when Peter checked him. 

“Wait half a minute, Matchem,” he said, gravely. 
“There’s something I want you to do for me first.” 

“Oh, anything, anything, Clancy. But wait till I 
tell Denise.” 

“No,” said Peter, firmly. “Do this for me first. 
Take this will to Curtis Fane, and see what he says 
about it. Find out if he knows it’s no good. Just 
that. I want to know whether he thinks it’s a will 
that would be admitted to probate.” 

“Why is that important, Clancy?” asked Tom, 
anxiously, frowning down at Peter. “What dif¬ 
ference does it make-” 

“If Curtis knew about this will—if he thinks, still, 
that it’s effective,” Peter’s voice was very stern, “it 
would give him ample motive for having abstracted 
the draught of another will which you know you saw 
on the table beneath your cousin’s body. You know 
that was what that paper was, Matchem, and you’re 
sure Curtis took it. Why would he take it if it didn’t 
mention him in no uncertain terms? It would have 
shown clearly Gilbert Fane’s last wishes and would 
have been most valuable if Mrs. Fane wanted to fight 
this will. . . . And if this paper, indicating that 

Gilbert had had a change of heart toward his brother 
—if such a paper were found near Gilbert’s murdered 
body, it might suggest to an unbiassed observer who 
the murderer might be.” 




THE WILL 


233 

“Oh, no, Clancy! No, I can’t believe it! I 
can’t-” 

“Then prove it, Matchem. Prove it. If Curtis 
tells you at once not to let Mrs. Fane worry about this 
will, because of its being made before her marriage 
and therefore no good—if he tells you that—well, 
I’ll promise to reconsider some of my ideas.” 

“All right. I’ll do it,” said Tom, and without 
more words left the room. 

Some little time elapsed before his return. When 
he opened the door Peter read an admission in his 
drawn, anxious face. 

“He didn’t know,” Tom said, heavily. “He 
doesn’t believe it is invalidated. He’s going to get a 
lawyer’s opinion. I left the paper with him.” 


/ 


CHAPTER XXIII 


The Show-down 

T7VENING was drawing in, gray and windy. 

Curtis Fane looked up at the sky as he stepped 
out of the garden door. The heavy clouds betokened 
rain, but it would not come for a while yet, he thought. 
He would have time—it was not yet six, the hour ap¬ 
pointed. He would get the matter settled, once for 
all. He had chosen his own ground, and if the fool 
. . . He clenched his hand on something cold 

and hard in his pocket and, without a glance at the 
gay chrysanthemums swaying in the wind, hurried 
through the garden with scarcely a thought of the 
innocent old chap who was pottering around among 
them, as he had been pottering about the hall a few 
moments before, preoccupied, absent-minded, think¬ 
ing of nothing but old manuscripts and the like. 
An odd fish, this Fletcher Kenyon. Fane vouch¬ 
safed him a nod as he passed, and thought no more 
about him. 

Would he have been able to dismiss that bent figure 
from his mind so easily if he had looked back through 
the arch in the yew hedge a moment later? The 
slow, listless, prematurely aged man had drifted 


234 


THE SHOW-DOWN 


235 

between the aisles of flowers and, nearing the hedge 
without perceptibly quickening his pace, had reached 
the archway through which Fane had just passed. 
Like a bent gray shadow he slipped through the 
garden gate and into the leafy woods. 

Carefully avoiding the path, with sure, stealthy 
tread Peter slipped along, following the sound of 
footsteps on the gravel and hard red clay. He knew 
that path well now, the path to Duncan Cameron’s 
farm. Was Fane going there? And why? A 
suspicion crossed Peter’s mind. If it was only 
that . . . But he was taking no chances. 

Curtis shouldn’t make a move of any kind and he not 
know it, Peter swore to himself. 

Down through the wood, each his own way, went 
pursuer and pursued. Quick, unhesitating tread on 
the gravel. Soft, silent footfalls on the mossy loam; 
not too near—not too far to hear those long, rapid 
steps. 

Hush. They had ceased suddenly. 

Crouching, creeping, flat on the ground at the last, 
Peter drew stealthily nearer to the path. The cover 
was good all the way—low bushes, not too dense. 

The sound of voices was heard, near at hand. 

Peter raised himself a little in the shelter of a rhodo¬ 
dendron, parted the stiff* leaves, and looked through. 

He was near the quarry pool at the bend of the 
path. Just below him he could distinguish two 
figures, dimly outlined in the dusky woods, and he 
swore softly under his breath. 


236 THE KEY 

“Every kind of a damned scoundrel out of hell,” 
he thought. “It was the girl he came to meet. I 
might have known.” 

He settled himself to wait and watch. He dared 
not go near enough to hear what they said, but he 
knew from their gestures and the sound of Fane’s 
voice that the girl was pleading and that Fane was 
angry. They spoke together not more than five 
minutes. Then Fane said something roughly and 
made a motion with his hand. The girl threw out 
her arms in a wild gesture, then slowly turned and 
went down the path toward her father’s farm. 

Peter started to slide back, away from the path, 
thinking that Fane would now return to the house. 
But such was not his intention, evidently. After the 
girl had gone, he stood looking for a moment in the 
direction she had taken. Then Peter saw him raise 
his right hand palm outward, and drawing it across 
his eyes, bring it down clenched, in a gesture of 
mingled grief, anger, and desperation. After that 
he paced impatiently up and down on the flat rocks 
for a time, then sat down on a low ledge and waited. 
Peter settled back and followed his example, keeping 
him in view. 

The wind rustled mournfully through the trees 
overhead, and for a space there was no other sound 
in all the quiet wood. At length there was a faint 
crunching of gravel farther down the path. Peter 
heard it first, but Fane evidently heard it an instant 
later for he leaned forward, peering into the shadows, 


THE SHOW-DOWN 


237 

and then started to his feet. A man had come into 
view; a slender, rather tall man wearing a light gray 
hat. 

Hardened as he was, Peter’s heart pounded against 
his ribs. It was the chance he had been looking 
for—the two men together. It was obviously an 
appointment. If he could only get near enough to 
hear what they said! If he could reach that clump 
of bushes close by the place where they stood! 

With infinite caution he started to wriggle toward 
the spot his eye had chosen, when, to his surprise, the 
two men turned and came toward him up the path. 
They passed so close that Peter held his breath. 

“It’s only a little way up here,” he heard Fane say. 
“ Perfectly safe place. Nice bit of open meadow with 
a bench under a tree. We can talk there without 
. . .” Peter could hear no more words, though 

the sound of voices came back to him fainter and 
fainter. 

There was no time to lose. If the place of con¬ 
ference were such as Fane described there was little 
hope of listening in, but he must keep them in view 
at least. Without wasting an instant, Peter resumed 
his tortuous passage through the wood, guided by 
the sound of footsteps. 

The way was very steep, but not long. Judging 
by the direction, Peter thought they could not be 
very far from the house; that they were making to¬ 
ward it, though he could not see it through the trees. 
Keeping the topography of the place in mind, he 


THE KEY 


238 

figured that they must be somewhere between the 
garden, which ran out from the tower end of the 
house, and the edge of the old quarry. 

Suddenly the footsteps ahead of him stopped. 
Peter, redoubling his precautions, crept forward. 
In a moment he saw why the footfalls were silenced. 

Peering through the bushes, he saw before him a 
small open glade covered with short grass. Above 
and to the left the blind walls of the great octagonal 
tower, on its buttress of sheer rock, rose gray and 
menacing. A half-circle of thick trees hid the rest 
of the house from view. Along the opposite side of 
the tiny meadow there was nothing but sky—a sky 
of flat gray clouds, slit along the horizon, as by a 
slashing sword stroke, to show a sea of molten cop¬ 
per. Nothing but sky—and Peter realized that, 
upon that side, must be the sheer cliffs of the quarry 
pool. 

A sense of impending danger stirred him as he 
watched the two men crossing the glade, their footfalls 
silenced in the quiet grass. The level red light from 
the west brought out their figures plainly. They 
passed to a bench near the edge of the cliff under a 
tall black pine and sat down. 

So far there was nothing questionable in the action 
of either. They might have been two friends resting 
from an evening stroll. But there was something 
ominous in the seclusion of the place, in the weird 
copper light, in the mourning, gusty wind, that filled 
Peter with apprehension. 


THE SHOW-DOWN 


239 

Where was O’Malley? Why had he let John 
Dolan out of his sight? His instructions had been 
plain. He should have followed, should have been 
here. It would be a comfort-What was that? 

A queer panting sound, a faint shuffle in the bushes 
behind him, and a large hand gripped his leg. 

“Made best time I could,” O’Malley’s husky whis¬ 
per sounded in his ear. “Nearly gave me the slip. 
Dolan took a jitney from Morrisville to the cross¬ 
roads just below, and I followed in a cab. Had to 
be careful. But he didn’t get wise. Hell of a woods. 
Whew!” A long panting breath. “Nearly lost my 
man on the way up, so scared he’d see me. Did lose 
him minute or two ago—but I saw you, Pete, from 
behind. Uncovered yourself for a second Bad 
business, Pete. But I guess I may have been worse. 
Not the right figger for this work. Whew!” 

“Thank God, you’re here, anyway,” whispered 
Peter, so intent on the two men before him that he 
did not even glance at O’Malley. “I don’t like the 
look of this. Wish we could get nearer. See that 
bunch of bushes that comes in pretty close to the 
bench over on the edge of the cliff? I’m going to 
slide over there. It’s nearer-” 

“But not near enough to hear what they say,” 
grunted O’Malley. “I don’t see the use of risk¬ 
ing-” 

“I do,” said Peter, decidedly. “You stay here by 
the path. I’m going-” 

Without a sound he slipped swiftly away among 


THE KEY 


240 

the trees. Trusting to the pitch of the ground and 
the thick bushes along the margin of the glade to hide 
him from sight, he was careful only to make no noise 
as he sped along. Borne in upon him was a pressing 
need for haste. He was panting for breath when he\ 
drew himself, flat on the ground, through the clump 
of bushes he had pointed out to O’Malley. 

Yes. He was right. Much nearer. He could 
hear the sound of voices quite distinctly, though he 
could not distinguish the words. He could see 
plainly the face of Fane and the man who called him¬ 
self Dolan. Could even watch the expressions, the 
emotions which swept across their features. It was 
oddly like a scene on a stage with himself in the 
wings, Peter thought, and the great arch of lurid sky 
for proscenium. 

If he could only hear what they said! But Peter 
could only watch—and guess. He was never to 
know what words passed between the two men on 
the cliff. In the silence of the night which followed 
that momentous day he reviewed the scene in all 
its details and his inference was near the truth, but 
he was never to know exactly what they said. 

We, who are invisible, to whom there are no limits 
of time and space, will draw near and listen. 

“Ten thousand dollars!” Dolan’s voice was cold and 
sneering. “But ‘what is that among so many’? 
Don’t know your Bible, Fane, I’m afraid. Taught 


THE SHOW-DOWN 


241 

Sunday School once myself, and made it pay, too, 
what? Make everything pay, I do, see? I’m 
going to work a miracle with you, and don’t you for¬ 
get it. Thought you could put one over on me, did 
you? Nothing doing! You’re going to get me all 
the money I want from now on, and then some! I’ll 
stick to you like a leech. There’s plenty going in 
that family of yours, and you offer me a measly ten 
thousand!” 

“How dare you talk to me like this!” said Fane, 
tensely. “It was you—you. The robbery we 
planned together, I take my share in. What was 
the use of hoarding up all that valuable stuff for a 
few old collectors to look at? I needed the money, 
and I was game for that. I admit it. But murder! 
My God, I had no idea of-” 

“The hell you say!” Dolan hissed out the words. 

“Is that what you’re after? You want to- 

Damn your eyes! Are you going to try to make out 
I killed your brother?” 

“Who else could have? Of course it was you. 
Why deny it ?” There were loathing and fear in Fane’s 
voice. “I’m responsible for letting you into the 
house, for letting you persuade me to give you a 
chance at the stuff we wanted, but aside from 
that-” 

“My God,” Dolan drawled the words disgustedly 
and spat on the ground. “Do you think I’m going 
to let you get away with a spiel like that? Loved 
your brother, didn’t you? Wouldn’t have hurt a 



THE KEY 


242 

hair of his head? And you played innocent with 
me and let me in for finding him—stabbed in the 
back. I owe you one for the fright I got. Hell! 
It was some game you put me up against! It takes a 
lot to get my nerve, but you got me going that one 
time, if it’s any comfort to you.” 

With set jaw and staring eyes, Fane gazed at the 
lean, sinister face before him. 

“You want me to think that Gilbert was already 

. . . dead . . . when-” Fane spoke as 

if the words choked him. 

“Dead? Of course he was dead. You knew that 
better than any one,” said Dolan, coolly. “And you 
had it all piped to catch me red-handed, if I hadn’t 
made such a quick get-away.” 

“So that’s your game, to bleed me,” said Fane, 
dully. “That’s why you didn’t stay and loot the 
place after you’d stabbed him.” 

“Hell! Don’t think you can pull that stuff on 
me, Fane,” said Dolan, angrily. “I’m wise to you 
and your tricks! I don’t know why you killed your 
brother—whether you had the whole thing planned 
beforehand to get rid of him and to let me swing for 
it, or whether you quarrelled with him and did 
him in on the spur of the moment. That don’t 
make a damned bit of difference. Whichever it 
was, there was I, innocent as you please, all ready 
to your hand, upstairs in that infernal closet where 
I’d lain since the afternoon, waiting there till my 
bones ached. 


THE SHOW-DOWN 


243 

“And what gets me is the easy way I fell into the 
trap. When you gave me the signal on the closet 
door that everybody was asleep and the coast was 
clear, didn’t I do what you told me, like a lamb? I 
thought,” a grating laugh, “that the reason you were 
so excited and nervous was because it was the first 
job you’d ever pulled, and I hadn’t the ghost of a 
suspicion of you even when I found the tower door 
unlocked. Unlocked, mind you, when you’d told 
me it would be locked, and I’d have to use the key 
you gave me. I was some suspicious then. It 
seemed too easy. But I guessed you’d worked it 
somehow, so there wouldn’t be any danger there.” 

“What you’re saying is nonsense,” Fane inter¬ 
rupted, roughly. “I heard Gilbert in his room—• 
heard him running water in his bathroom—and waited 
till everything was quiet before I called you . 
and of course he locked the tower door when he came 
up. Why he went down again has puzzled me ever 
since—unless he heard you——” 

Dolan regarded him with an ugly leer. “Been hit¬ 
ting the pipe, or do you think I have, to swallow a 
bluff like that? I can see now the trap you set for 
me and, fool that I was, I fell into it, neat as you 
please. I went in and shut the door just as you’d 
have wanted me to . . . and then I saw there 

was a light burning behind a curtain on the other side 
of the room. That gave me pause, as they say in 
books. I can’t see now why you left the light on un¬ 
less you’d lost your nerve. . . . However, I’m 


THE KEY 


244 

no quitter, I tell you. I’d come that far and I says to 
myself, ‘Ell see it through/ and Ell tell you what I did. 

“I waited a long time just inside the door, behind 
the curtain that hung there. There wasn’t a sound, 
naturally. Nothing stirred, and after a while I 
slipped across the room. ... I could see those 
rows and rows of little steel drawers and they made 
my mouth water. ... It looked like a real 
job, one I could take pride in.” He laughed again 
grimly. “I was sure there wasn’t anybody there. 
No one could have kept from moving all that time, I 
thought, and I wasn’t afraid, only careful, when I 
bent down low and looked behind the curtain. 

“ God! Fane. It was no easy game you’d stacked 
me up against. His face was on a level with mine. 
. . . I don’t mind telling you I broke out into a 

cold sweat. 

“I got my nerve back in a minute or two. I saw, 
right away, that he was dead. I sized up the 
situation and knew there was nothing for it but to 
beat it. I made up my mind, then, that Ed make 
you svreat blood before I was through with you.” 
The voice was venomous. “I looked around to see 
if there was anything worth while, loose, that I could 
pick up for a souvenir, and I saw one of the steel 
drawers open, right beside him, and full of cash. I 
was broke and it looked good to me. I stooped over 
and picked up a bunch of bills—and just then . . . ” 
He paused and his voice lowered almost to a whisper 
—“Something moved in the air, over my head—a 


THE SHOW-DOWN 


245 

shadow—I don’t know what—flashed between me 
and the light. I guess I lost my nerve again—lost it 
sure that time. . . . It was so still . . . and 

that black shadow of nothing I could see . . . 

“I got to the door so quick, I don’t know how I 
did it. I had just sense enough to pull the key out 
and drop it on the rug so I could lock the door with 
your key from the outside. I wanted that door 
locked, somehow—I don’t know why, but I had a 

feeling-” He took off his hat and wiped the 

sweat from his brow. 

Fane regarded him curiously, with fear and hatred 
in his eyes. 

“Wonderful imagination you have. Jack,” he 
said with appalling slowness. “So this is the story 
you’ve cooked up to frighten me with. Why, damn 
you, you know as well as I that I didn’t kill my 
brother—better than I, since you killed him your¬ 
self.” 

Dolan jumped to his feet and stood over Fane. 

“You hound! You double-distilled liar and sneak. 
I found the man dead, I tell you, and if you didn’t 
stab him, who did?” 

“You, yourself,” cried Fane (and Peter heard the 
words). “You killed him! Before God, I never 
touched him!” 

Peter could see two figures, dark and menacing, 
unnaturally large against the lurid sky. 

He saw Fane’s hand flash backward, and at the 
same instant the red light gleamed on a pistol held 



THE KEY 


246 

in Dolan’s raised hand. With a cry Peter broke 
cover and dashed toward them. 

What followed was a matter of seconds only. He 
caught a glimpse of O’Malley pounding toward them. 
He saw both men turn at the sound. He heard 
Dolan shout, “You don’t double-cross me again, you 
hound! Put up your hands! It’s a show-down!” 

They were near the edge of the cliff, against a sky 
of molten copper and gray ashes. Fane made a 
motion with his hand and Dolan shouted again— 
Peter was close in. There was the clear, sharp re¬ 
port of a pistol, and Dolan swayed, put his hand 
to his heart, and fell forward on the grass. 

And in that' instant, as they all stood, arrested 
by that fateful sound, there was a sudden stir of 
wings overhead. A great bat swooped low, close to 
the set face of Curtis Fane. The face changed, was 
filled with horror. A wild, eerie startled cry broke 
from his lips. He reeled, lost his balance, and with¬ 
out a sound, fell backward over the cliff. 

******* 

“Clancy! I’ve been hunting for you. I’ve found 
out how Gilbert died! I’ve found out, I tell you! 
Where’s Curtis? He must know-” 

Breathless, Tom Matchem strove to check Peter’s 
headlong progress as he raced down the path to the 
quarry pool, O’Malley following heavily not far be¬ 
hind. 


THE SHOW-DOWN 


247 

“ Don’t stop! Come on!” Peter panted. “He’s 
gone over the cliff. Your cousin, Curtis Fane. Fell 
from the rocks above not two seconds ago. Hurry. 
He may be alive. The pool-” 

With a horrified cry, Tom dashed past Peter. He 
was much the swifter runner of the two, had out¬ 
distanced Peter by several yards when he reached the 
quarry pool. The light was growing dim, but Tom 
thought he could distinguish something huddled, 
flung down upon the rocks, half in the water, on the 
far side, among the purple shadows. 

Before Peter reached him, Tom had flung off his 
coat, torn his shoes from his feet, leaped the project¬ 
ing railing and with a clean dive was in the icy water. 

With swift, sure strokes he swam, heading for the 
huddled shape upon the rocks. A moment, and he 
was there, beside it, touching it with his hand. The 
ledge on which it lay was narrow. Tom caught hold 
of a tough root in a crevice above his head and pulled 
himself partly out of the water, maintaining his 
position with the help of his feet, braced against a 
jutting rock beneath the surface. 

He passed his hand over the crumpled body which 
lay face upward upon the cruel rocks. At his touch 
there followed a deep, low groan. Tom’s heart 
leaped within him. 

“Curtis, Curt, old chap,” he cried. “Can you 
hear me? Can you-” 

“Tom!” The heavy lids fluttered. The eyes 
opened and looked up into his face. The voice was 



THE KEY 


248 

low and husky with pain. “ Don’t—don’t move me, 
Tom,” it said. “I’mdone . . . no use . . . 
I know . . . Something I want to say. . . . 
Lean closer, Tom. Wait. . . .” 

The eyes closed again, compelled by unbearable 
pain, but at the last the will behind them held firm. 
Curtis Fane spoke. 

“I’ve been a rotten hound, Tom. . . . You’d 

never understand ... A beast ... an in¬ 
grate ... I would have robbed Gilbert . . . 

but never . . .” the voice grew stronger. “So 

help me God, Tom, I didn’t kill him.” 

“I know. I know, old man. I never thought it, 

and now I know. It wasn’t you! It wasn’t-” 

“Enough . . . if you believe me ... no 

time . . . must say—must tell you . . . 

Margaret Stacy ... I made her take half the 
money. . . . The rest ... in my bank, in 

town . . . you know . . . it’s yours. . . .” 

“I know,” said Tom, gently. “It doesn’t mat¬ 
ter-” 

“You knew? You knew I lied to you, knew I 

robbed you? And yet you’re here-” 

“Of course. Don’t try to talk. Curt. Let me see 
if I can-” 

“No use, Tom. I can only keep myself here 
by . . . Something more I want to say. . . . 

I . . .” 

A long pause. Tom leaned forward, and holding 
his breath put his ear against the heart. A faint, 






THE SHOW-DOWN 249 

faint beat, almost indistinguishable. Tom waited, 
and at length the voice came again, low and rough 
with agony: 

“Tom . . . are you still there? ... I 

wanted . . . The girl, Tom . . . down 
at the farm. . . . You take care of her, Tom, 
You and Denise. . . . You’re good . . 
you’ve always been ...” A long, deep sigh, 
and the painful voice went on: “It’s a rotten 
show—life—for such as I . . .A rotten show 

. . . They’re putting out the lights . . . Tom!” 


CHAPTER XXIV 

The Sword of Damocles 

T TOURS later, Peter and O'Malley sat together in 
•*- -*• Peter's spacious bedroom at Tower Hall, going 
over again the events in the tragedy on which, they 
both agreed, the curtain had fallen for ever. 

“Which of them it was that murdered Gilbert 
Fane, we’ll never know, I suppose," said O’Malley. 
“But one of 'em killed him, I make no doubt, and 
they’re both gone to give an account where no false 
testimony gets across." 

Peter nodded. 

“I don't know how you feel about it, Pete," 
O’Malley went on, “but this Matchem seems like a 
hell of a nice chap to me." 

“He is," agreed Peter, heartily. “One of the 
whitest I've ever come across. And Mrs. Fane and 
the little boy-" 

“I haven't but just seen them, of course," said 
O'Malley, “but they look the real thing to me. Nice 
family—nice bunch altogether. One black sheep. 
Seems a pity. And we don't really know but that it 
was Dolan-" 

He broke off and rubbed his hand over his broad 


250 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES 


25 * 

forehead and stiff gray hair. Peter watched him 
with interest, concealing a half-smile with the hand 
on which he leaned his head. 

“Pete,” O’Malley went on after a slight pause, 
“is there any objection, to your mind, in letting 
Dolan be the goat? It’s an even bet, anyway, and 
why have the Fane name mixed up in the show¬ 
down? It’ll be a cinch, with the evidence we’ve 
got. Dolan’s record, which Fosdick turned up this 
afternoon—ten years at San Quentin for the finest 
piece of safe-breaking known to the police; and that 
stretch at Sing Sing just before the war. By the 
way, he was in the same air squadron with Fane, 
did I tell you? I suppose that’s where they got 
acquainted.” 

“Yes, you told me,” Peter interrupted. “You’re 
wandering, old scout. Get back to cases. What’s 
your idea?” 

“Just this,” answered O’Malley, not at all abashed. 
“With Dolan’s record it won’t be any stunt at all to 
convince the police—and the newspaper men, which 
is more important—that Dolan, having known Curtis 
Fane in the army, found his way here, managed, 
somehow, to get a key to the tower room, and when 
he found Gilbert there, killed him, see?” 

“Righto,” said Peter. 

“Afterward, Dolan, fearing that Curtis might 
suspect him, induced him, somehow, to agree to meet 
him in that meadow at the top of the quarry. We 
can prove that Dolan wrote him a letter from the 


252 THE KEY 

Essex House in Morrisville. Rawlins saw him writ¬ 
ing, and managed to see the address on the envelope.” 

“All right/’ said Peter. “Then what?” 

“Well, Pete, we saw the rest, didn’t we? We had 
followed up Dolan and we saw him threaten Fane. 
We saw the struggle which followed, and before we 
could interfere, Fane’s pistol went off accidentally, 
killing Dolan, and Fane, in the recoil, fell over the 
cliff. Anything the matter with that ? ” 

“Not a thing,” Peter grinned cheerfully, “except 
that it doesn’t exactly stick to the crystal truth. A 
few inaccuracies-” 

“Oh, hell!” said O’Malley, crisply. “What are a 
few little tiny facts between friends? Dolan was a 
bad egg anyway, and he’s got no family. . . . 

And this Matchem chap-” 

“He’s got you, too, has he?” laughed Peter. “You 
are a good old scout, O’Malley! But you know 
Matchem says we’re both ’way off. Says neither 
Fane nor Dolan murdered his cousin Gilbert. Says 
he can prove it.” 

“How can he do that, Pete?” asked O’Malley. 
“Of course it was one of those two scoundrels. They 
planned the robbery, and when Gilbert butted in, 
one of ’em did for him. That’s a cinch.” 

“Matchem agrees to our theory as far as the 
robbery goes. But he insists that he knows how the 
murder was pulled, and that he can show us some¬ 
thing that will prove we’re mistaken. He had it all 
doped out and was coming to find Curtis and me to 



THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES 


253 

tell us about it just when—you know—when he met 
us running down to the quarry pool. He’s terribly 
excited about it still and wants us to come to the 
tower room as soon as he’s free—I thought he’d have 
sent for us before this.” 

“What in the devil do you suppose it is?” asked 
O’Malley, curiously. 

“You can search me,” answered Peter, “but Mat- 
chem’s no fool.” 

There followed a moment of thoughtful silence. 
Then O’Malley said: 

“Have you heard what they mean to do about that 
chorus girl I interviewed this afternoon—Margaret 
Stacy?” 

“Nothing,” Peter replied, succinctly. “Not a 
damn thing. Matchem cares less about money than 
any other chap I ever came across, and he couldn’t 
possibly be persuaded to make a move which would 
bring more scandal on the house.” 

“Guess he’s right at that,” meditated O’Malley. 

“He’s pretty nearly always right, that lad,” agreed 
Peter. “I wonder if-” 

A knock at the door interrupted him. 

“Come in,” said Peter. 

The door opened and James Haggerty stood on the 
threshold. His old face had taken on a new dignity 
though he still looked sadly out of his wide pale eyes. 

“Mr. Matchem would like you and your friend to 
come to the tower room now, sir,” he said, addressing 
Peter. 


THE KEY 


254 

In silence the two men rose and followed the old 
servant down the great staircase. At the tower door 
he paused an instant. Then he opened it and stood 
aside for them to enter, followed immediately, closed 
it, and took his stand just inside. 

The vast room was full of light. It gleamed on 
polished floor and soft, dark rugs, on rich carving of 
furniture; brought out the greens and browns, the reds 
and blues of leather books; flashed on steel cuirass, on 
gilded helm, on scimitar, rapier, dagger, mace, and 
lost itself in the tenuous shadows of the distant roof. 

Before the fireplace, at “Fletcher Kenyon's” table, 
stood Thomas Matchem. There were confidence 
and power in his kind, direct gaze. His shoulders had 
lost their scholarly droop. His head was held erect. 
The athletic virility of the man which, in his innate 
modesty he had held of small account, showed in his 
bearing. A slight smile drew up the corners of his 
large, clean-cut mouth. He half-raised his hand in a 
short gesture of friendly greeting and beckoned them 
to come nearer. 

“You, too, James,” he said. “I want you here to 
see. If it hadn't been for you- Look.” 

At his word and gesture the three men had quickly 
approached the table, looking eagerly to see what lay 
thereon. 

Gone were the yellow painted manuscripts over 
which Mr. Fletcher Kenyon had blindly pored, and 
in their place there lay- 

“Great snakes.” said Peter, wrinkling his nose in 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES 


255 

protest and gazing downward. “God! Isn’t it 
filthy—horrible—dis-” 

“More than that,” interrupted Matchem, gravely. 
“It’s criminal, Clancy. A murderer.” 

“A murderer? That!” cried O’Malley. 

“The shadow! The shadow of Death!” James 
Haggerty’s voice rang out, awakening weird echoes 
in the roof. “Was it that? Was it that, Mr. Tom? 
Afeard he was! Afeard of ’em from a boy, my Mr. 
Gilbert, just as his father was before him.” 

The old servant was gazing down at the table 
where lay, stretched out on a white paper, a great 
loathsome bat. The leathery wings were outspread, 
the little, gleaming eyes in the grotesquely marked 
face were open, but there was no movement in the 
hideous body, no quiver in the dark, still wings. The 
bat was dead. 

James Haggerty turned his white head slowly and 
looked up at a great damascened shield upon the 
wall. “Was it the shadow of those dark wings I 
saw?” he said, half to himself. “It may well have 
been, and yet—with the horror it was to Mr. Gilbert, 
I was right, mayhap. The shadow—of Death.” 

“It was there I found it, James,” said Matchem, 
gently. “The place you pointed out, behind the 
shield. If it hadn’t been for you I never would have 

thought- Look here, Clancy,” he said in a 

slightly altered tone, “you remember all the acari 
(bugs, you called them) that we found on the wall 
alongside that shield?” 


THE KEY 


256 

Peter nodded. He could not yet see what Matchem 
was driving at, but he was willing to follow where he 
led. 

“ Those little insects,” Matchem went on, quickly, 
“ infest many animals, especially rodents, and are 
found in hordes on the bodies of bats. They will 
remain concealed in the fur as long as the bat is alive, 
but the minute it’s dead they leave the body. Now 
here we have a train of facts which I will give you in 
order. On the morning we discovered my cousin’s 
body, James thought he saw, and actually, I believe, 
did see, a dark shadow moving high up on the wall 
there. That night you, Clancy, called my atten¬ 
tion to the small insects, which I identified as acari, 
and which I found in great numbers on the wall be¬ 
neath that shield. Then, at the inquest, James 
spoke again of the black moving shadow he had seen, 
and suggested that no human hand had killed my 
cousin. 

“Like a flash, an idea came to me. We knew that 
the dagger which caused his death until very recently 
had been hanging on the wall just above him; that it 
had been hanging there for nine years at least; that 
the leather thong by which it hung was almost dis¬ 
integrated.” 

“Yes,” said Peter, who was following^Tom’s every 
word with closest attention. “The unfinished side 
of the leather was crumbling in little flakes, and the 
finished surface was pretty nearly gone.” 

“ So much for that,” Tom went on. “And another 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES 


257 

point—a very little thing seemingly—a sharp scratch 
on the smooth slanting molding just above the chair 
in which my cousin habitually sat. Mr. Clancy 
called my attention to it and we had some dis¬ 
cussion as to how it might possibly have come there.” 

Again Peter nodded in verification. 

“But most of : all”—Tom’s raised forefinger ac¬ 
centuated his point—“I want you to realize the 
curious, unreasoning terror, the dread, amounting to 
almost an obsession, which was felt by all my cousin’s 
family, and especially himself, for anything that 
darted and swung in the air and circled around one’s 
head—for insects of that sort, for birds—but particu¬ 
larly an absolute abhorrence, fear, and loathing of a 
flying bat.” 

“And, in reality, it was a bat that caused the death 
of Curtis Fane,” said Peter in a low tone. “A great 
black bat darted from the tree above him and flew 
almost in his face . . . and he went backward, 

over the cliff.” 

Tom turned a startled glance at Peter. 

“Nemesis,” he said, solemnly. “A strange fatal¬ 
ity ... I didn’t know . . .” 

There was a moment’s silence. Then O’Malley’s 
gruff voice broke in: 

“But I don’t quite see, Mr. Matchem, how this 
bat could have-” 

Tom roused himself, started into quick, decisive 
action. 

“You understand,” he said, “that I found this bat 



258 THE KEY 

dead behind that big Italian shield. Right. Now, 
see/’ He pointed up into the shadows, high above 
his head. “You see those ventilators in the roof? 
Or if you don’t, they’re there—and open—are kept 
open until very cold weather. The slats are narrow, 
but plenty wide enough to allow a bat, a most expert 
flyer, to get into the tower. So much for that. Now 
come with me.” 

With rapid strides he crossed the room, the three 
men close behind him. He grasped the great purple 
curtain in his hand and flung it back. 

“The dagger!” exclaimed Peter. “Someone has 
hung the dagger in its place again.” 

“Yes,” said Matchem, quietly. “I’ve been experi¬ 
menting. See—this is what happened. I’m abso¬ 
lutely certain. Look.” 

He passed around the end of the long table and 
placed himself in the chair in which Gilbert Fane’s 
body had been found. 

“Gilbert was sitting here writing,” he said in a low, 
grave tone. “He was absorbed in what he was do¬ 
ing. He was alone. It was late at night. The 
room was very still. Suddenly he heard something— 
and looked up. A bat, a flying, darting bat, the 
most abhorrent thing in the world to him, was circling 
close about his head. He half-rose from his chair and 
struck at it. The bat rose in the air and circled 
higher. He watched it with terror and loathing in 
his eyes.” 

So graphic were the words that Peter could picture 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES 259 

the entire scene. The silence, the obscurity of the 
upper air; the man, alone, half insane with unreason¬ 
ing terror, and the broad, leather wings swinging and 
circling above his head. Clancy felt within himself 
a creeping, nauseating sensation of sympathy. 

Tom had risen from his chair. His grave eyes 
were alight. Standing beside him was a long, light 
jointed rod furnished with a hook at one end. Peter 
guessed, rightly, that it was used to open and close 
the ventilators in the roof by means of long cords 
ending in rings which hung from them. 

Matchem took the rod in his hand and stepped a 
little away from the table. 

“Now watch,” he said. “The bat was flying high, 
was partly blinded by the light, was frightened by 
Gilbert’s wild gestures. It flew over to the darker 
wall behind him—tried to cling to something there, 
and as it clung the leather thong which held the dagger 
broke, with the slight additional weight—like this!” 

With a swinging motion he brought the tip of the 
rod in sharp contact with the fragile thread by which 
he had rehung the ancient Italian poniard. 

The thread broke. The dagger dropped, hilt 
downward, struck the slanting surface of the cornice 
above the wall of steel drawers, described an arc in 
the air and, with a murderous flash of its long blade, 
plunged half its cruel length in the cushion of Gilbert 
Fane’s chair. 


26 o 


THE KEY 


A peaceful night, serene and still. The wind had 
swept the clouds away to some far shore of sky and 
lingered there. The leaves hung motionless upon the 
trees. The stars shone faintly in the wide clear sky, 
for the late moon was rising. Two figures stood 
alone upon the broad terrace of Tower Hall. There 
was silence between them, the silence of perfect 
understanding. At last the woman’s figure moved, 
turned, and she spoke. 

“Tom, dear Tom.” Her voice was soft and clear 
as the quiet night. She stretched out both her 
hands. “You have known, Tom ... all these 
years ? ” 

He took her hands in his. 

“I have known, Denise.” His voice was filled 
with wonder. “I have known,” he repeated, “all 
these years. . . . You, who are so much—I, who 

am nothing. . . .” 

“You, who are nothing, Tom!” The fragrant 
voice broke in a sob. “Is it nothing to be silent, 
Tom? To be faithful, tender, kind—to be selfless, 
patient—— ” 

“I, Denise! I ? It is you who have been patient, 
who have borne- Oh, wonder of the world-” 

He knelt before her and, clasping her knees, buried 
his face in the folds of her gown. 

“Not to me—not to me, Tom,” she cried. 

Slipping her hand beneath his chin, she pressed 
his head backward and, bending, kissed him on the 
lips. 



THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES 261 

Late, late that night, a girl sat weeping beside the 
quarry pool. Her long dark hair drifted down across 
her face. Her head was bent. 

The night was still. Again the moon rose high 
above the silent woods, the purple cliffs of quarried 
rock, the watching tower. 

White mist gleamed above the dark and secret 
water, wraiths of mist that seemed to float and 
beckon. 

The girl rose and, moving slowly forward, rested 
her hands upon the railing and looked down at a 
broad trail of water on the rocks. 

“His to-night and mine to-morrow,” she breathed. 
“His body . . . Oh, God”—she raised her 

ravaged face to the pure sky—“if this is too great a 
sin, send me a sign. Send me-” 

A voice floated toward her down the wind, a deep 
voice singing softly. She could just distinguish the 
words: 

“There’s nae sorrow there, Jean, 

There’s neither cauld nor care, Jean, 

The day is aye fair 
In the land o’ the leal.” 

“The leal!” Had she been leal? Would it be 
true and brave—with the new life stirring beneath 
her heart. . . . The girl bowed her head upon 

her hands. 

A quiet footstep sounded close behind her. She 
felt a touch on her arm. 



262 


THE KEY 


“Poor girl!” It was Tom Matchem’s voice. 
“Poor child, you ought not to be here. You ought 
not to be out so late. There, there, we’re going 
home, aren’t we? I’ll see you safe. I was going 
down to your father’s with a message from Mrs. 
Fane. Ah, my child, my poor child, don’t cry like 
that. I loved him, too, in spite of all. His last 
words were for you. He thought of you at the very 
last. He asked us to take care of you, and we’ll see 
you through, whatever happens. There will be 
quiet days for you when the storm has passed—peace 
and hope. Come. Come away.” 

Slowly she turned and looked up into his face. 

“A sign,” she said. “God sent a sign. You-” 

She drooped forward and fell fainting across his 
arm. He raised her as if she had been the child he 
called her, and bore her to her father’s door. 


THE END 












I 

















